Chapter 1: "Oh, we blew it!"

2012, New York

"Bucky…is…alive."

Those were the last words Steve expected out of Loki, and his grip on the other man—currently morphed into an identical version of himself—loosened. "What?"

Bucky? The face came to his mind instantly, blue eyes, a crooked smile. How would Loki know anything about Bucky? Hell, how had he gotten the photo of Peggy?

The punch to Steve's face was swift. He realized the deception too late as the tip of the Scepter touched his chest, and the world went dark.

-0- -0- -0-

Rogers held the case with the Scepter. He needed to return it to the time and place from which he took it, but he couldn't very well run into himself in the elevator. He waited below, and when Rumlow and the others walked off the lift, Rogers squared his shoulders and marched forward confidently.

"Threat has been neutralized." He handed the case to Rumlow. "Make sure this stays safe, gentlemen."

Surprise flashed across Rumlow's face, then his gaze narrowed skeptically. He exchanged glances with Sitwell, then took the case with a nod. "It's good to have you on the team, Cap."

Rogers eyed Rumlow and forced his face into neutral arrogance even though he really wanted to smash the man's nose into pulp.

Rumlow's words—words not yet uttered in this timeline—came back to Rogers. "You know he knew you…Your pal, your buddy, your Bucky. He remembered you. I was there. He got all weepy about it, 'til they put his brain back in a blender."

He hated turning the Scepter over to Hydra, but if he didn't, the Avengers wouldn't search for it, wouldn't run into Wanda and Pietro. Wanda would never join the Avengers. Vision would never exist.

On the other hand, without the Scepter, Ultron wouldn't happen. Sokovia wouldn't be destroyed. Zemo wouldn't lose his family and seek revenge on the Avengers. The Accords might never happen.

With bile in the back of his throat, Rogers gave an affirming nod, turned on his heels, and marched away from the group that would send Bucky after Fury, Natasha, and himself and try to use the Insight helicarriers to kill millions of people.

As Rogers headed to an isolated spot to take his next time jump, he wondered how things would unfold in this timeline they'd messed up. Loki was gone with the cube, Rumlow and the others thought Captain America was a Hydra agent, and his younger self had a seed planted in his mind that Bucky might still be alive.

-0- -0- -0-

"He had a vibranium shield and the compass with Peggy's photo in it, just like mine. If Loki disappeared, then who the hell was I fighting?" Steve asked as he stared at the screen. The footage was paused on a figure that looked just like himself, heading out of the elevator with the Scepter's case.

Natasha, Tony, Thor, Clint, and Bruce were in the conference room trying to figure out what the hell had happened.

"That's a great question, Old Timer," Tony said, absently rubbing his chest. "And, Capsickle two returned the Scepter a few minutes later? Why, that-good-for-nothing…borrower."

"Doesn't sound like Loki," Clint commented, his gaze far off. "If he had the cube and the scepter, he'd have vanished. Guy talks big, and he's smart as hell, but he's a coward when his chips are down. Why would he risk capture and impersonate Cap? Also, he had you down, but he didn't follow through. Left you alive, even though he has a score to settle. Then he returned the Scepter a few minutes later. We all know there's no way Loki would do any of those things."

"He said Bucky's alive," Steve muttered.

"Bucky?" Bruce shook his head, face pinched in confusion. "Who's that?"

"My best friend." Who I let die. It may have been almost 70 years for the world, but for him, it was only months ago. "He can't be alive."

There were still many nights when he woke to the sound of Bucky's fading scream.

"Bucky Barnes?" Natasha asked. "The only Howling Commando to sacrifice his life in service to his country?"

"An honorable death," Thor commented. "Your friend was a true warrior."

Clint perked up, a crinkle at the edges of his eyes. "Cap and the Howling Commandos were pretty much the first Avengers, if you think about it."

"Fury did, actually. It was part of his inspiration for the Avengers," Natasha said, the barest hint of a smile on her lips. "Cap and the Howling Commandos turned the tide of the War and saved the world. Fury thought if a few guys from the 40s could defeat Hydra–even though Hydra used the Tesseract to develop advanced weapons that should have been unstoppable at the time–that a similar team today might come in handy against even greater threats."

Steve tried to muster an appreciative smile, but he wasn't sure he succeeded. Natasha's words reminded him that Bucky never got the honors and recognition he deserved–not while he was alive, anyway. He didn't even get a proper burial at home since his body was never found.

Never found….Just like mine, until I turned up in the ice 70 years later.

"Why would he say Bucky is alive?" Steve asked, his fists clenching beneath the table. Suddenly sitting felt too much like doing nothing.. "Who the hell was he if he wasn't Loki?"

December 1924, Brooklyn, New York.

The air was crisp, like shards of ice in his lungs. He hopped down the stairs, his crossbody school bag swinging against his hip. The crunch of snow and a familiar voice caught his ear.

"Stay down, you punk!"

Great. Johnny Marone, Brooklyn's meanest 2nd grader.

Coming around the side of the brick school building, he spotted Johnny and Vinnie looming over a scrawny blonde kid who scrambled to his feet. His hair was a mess and he tugged on the drooping waistband of pants that were wet from the snow, then raised his fists, fire in his eyes. A black schoolbag lay half-buried in the snow next to him.

He was a gutsy one, but he was gonna get clobbered. A moment later Johnny delivered a gut-punch that doubled the kid over.

Ugh. That had to hurt. Vinnie and Johnny were on top, landing punches, but the little guy put up a fuss big enough for two of him.

"Pay up, you wimp!" Vinnie reached into the kid's pockets.

"Hey!" He couldn't stand by and let them steal from someone who looked like his folks couldn't afford much.

Johnny Marone's head whipped up. "Whaddya want, Jimmy?"

"Give'em back his money and leave him alone."

Johnny stood up while Vinnie pocketed the money. The little guy wiped at his bloody nose as he pushed to his feet.

"Make me," Vinnie dared, chin up, taking a step closer to Johnny.

If it was a fight they wanted, a fight they'd be getting. Johnny took a swing. Jimmy ducked, coming up behind the boy and kicking him face-first into the snow.

Vinnie laughed. Johnny looked up with a glare and barked, "Shut up."

"Give it," Jimmy held his mittened palm out, giving Vinnie the hardest stare he could muster, "or I'll clobber you."

"Geez, okay." Vinnie reached into his pocket and pulled out the money, slapping a couple of coins in Jimmy's palm.

The two boys ran out of sight, but Johnny's voice filtered around the corner as he called for Mr. Anderson.

Jimmy turned to the scrawny boy and held out the coins. "Here."

Swiping at his nose, his cheeks flushed red and his clothes a mess, the kid took coins. "Thanks, but I had them on the ropes."

"Uh-huh." The little guy sure talked big. "What's your name?"

"Steve." He reached down and yanked his bag out of the snow. It was wider than him and looked like it would tilt him over. "I know who you are."

"James Buchanan Barnes!" A man bellowed.

He should have expected it. Johnny was a tattle-tale crybaby. Why was it always Mr. Anderson? A moment later, the history teacher appeared.

"Mr. Anderson, I—" Jimmy began, but the teacher reached down and grabbed his collar.

"Did you kick Johnny into the snow?"

"Well, yeah, but—"

"You're coming with me. Kicking Johnny, giving Steve a bloody nose, you like to beat up on people?"

Those dirty liars were putting the blame for Steve on him? The teacher yanked him forward. Jimmy glanced at Steve as he fought to stay upright and keep up with Mr. Anderson's angry steps.

Would Steve stick up for him or take off?

"He didn't give me a bloody nose!" Steve ran after them.

"Don't lie, Steve, he's not going to come after you. Two boys saw him. I'll make sure he doesn't do this again."

"I didn't!" Jimmy protested, scrambling and tripping as the teacher pulled him into the classroom.

He'd never gotten the ruler before, but Mr. Anderson sounded angry enough to bring it out.

Mr. Anderson's pale, round face and light blue eyes loomed over him. "You right-handed?"

"Y-Yes." He was gonna get the ruler, and it was really gonna hurt. "But I didn't—"

"Hold out your left hand." The ruler came up.

"No! I didn't do it!"

"Hold out your left hand, James, or I'll do it for you."

It wasn't right. It wasn't fair. "I'm not going to! I didn't punch Steve."

Steve was in the doorway, his tiny face contorted. "He's telling the truth. It was Johnny!"

Anderson dropped the ruler to the desk. His hand whipped out and grabbed Jimmy's left wrist while his other yanked off the mitten. Then the ruler was in his hand again, coming down hard.

Pain—hot and instantaneous—burst across the top of Jimmy's knuckles. He gritted his teeth, and the ruler struck again, harder. The sting pulled a cry from his throat.

His vision shimmered. "I didn't do it!"

Another slap. "That one's for lying."

Jimmy cried out and yanked his hand away. Steve was seeing him be a wuss.

"Now get out of here!" the teacher bellowed.

Jimmy ran, his face flushed hot. It was white and cold outside. He rounded the corner and dropped to his knees, staring at his bloody knuckles. Two small drops of crimson fell onto the snow.

"I'm sorry." A pair of worn brown shoes appeared.

Jimmy looked up at Steve, then wiped quickly at his eyes. He wouldn't be caught blubbering. "It's not your fault."

"It wouldn't have happened if you weren't trying to help me." Steve reached down and scooped snow into his gloved hand. "This might help, Buckaroo."

With a gentle smile and a light touch, he spread the ice over Jimmy's torn knuckles. In his other hand, Steve held the dark mitten the teacher had yanked off.

"Thanks," Jimmy muttered. His folks would be mad if he lost a mitten. Madder. As soon as his mom saw his knuckles, she'd know he got into trouble. "My Mom's gonna be so upset."

"Where do you live?" Steve asked.

Jimmy pointed west. "About a mile that way."

"I'm kind of in that direction." He pointed south. "Near Montague."

"I'm a few blocks from there." Jimmy took the glove from Steve and worked it carefully over his hand. "Thanks."

"Will your mom hit you?"

"Nah. My dad whoops me sometimes, but never too bad. Your dad get out the belt sometimes?"

"My dad died in the War before I was born. It's just me and my mom. She never hits me. Washed my mouth out with soap once. I threw up. The next day she got me ice cream."

"Oh." That was crappy. "How did your dad die?"

"Mustard gas attack," Steve muttered. "He was with the 107th."

"It's not right, them picking on you. Your dad's a hero."

"I can fight my own battles, you know." Steve gestured to Jimmy's hand. "You didn't have to get in trouble on account of me."

"Two against one's not fair. I just evened the score. Besides, my Ma says trouble always finds me, so it's not your fault. I don't know why Mr Anderson doesn't like me. I don't mouth off in class, or anything."

"He's a bully like Johnny and Vinnie."

Jimmy liked the scrawny guy. "How old are you?"

"Six."

"Oh." That was a surprise considering Steve was barely taller than Maggie, and she was only four. "I'm seven."

"I know I'm small for my age. My mom got influenza when she was pregnant with me. She says she's not sure if that affected me. Then I got scarlet fever last year, too, so it could be that."

"Maybe it made you ornery."

Steve flashed him a look, like he wasn't sure if he was being made fun of, then seemed to catch the humor of the comment and smiled. "Maybe." They got to Henry Street, and Steve veered toward the really poor neighborhood. "I'm this way."

Jimmy nodded and gave a wave. "See ya." He thought about Johnny and Vinnie. They were probably pretty sore over the fight. "Hey, Steve, you wanna meet here tomorrow and walk to school?"

Steve swung the bag at his side, his lips in a tight line. "I can hold my own if Johnny and Vinnie hassle me."

"Sure." You gotta prove you ain't scared, I get it. He turned, then stopped and looked back. "Buckaroo?"

Steve ducked his head and shrugged. "On account of Buchanan's your middle name and your cowboy stuff back there."

Jimmy beamed at the compliment. There wasn't any law that said he couldn't change his route to school tomorrow.

When he got home, he hurtled through the apartment door, passing his mother in the kitchen, wearing the yellow dress she favored. "School was good! Washing up!" He waved to his father in the armchair. Baby Becca was on a blanket on the living room floor.

If he could make it to the bathroom and wash his knuckles, maybe his folks wouldn't notice the injury. The door was closed. It sucked having sisters. He pounded on the door with his right fist. "Hurry up, I gotta go!"

"Beat it!" Ruth answered.

"Jimmy." His mother's voice, behind him.

Jimmy bit the inside of his cheek, turned around, and looked at her, putting on his best innocent face. "Yeah, Ma?"

She gazed at him with her blue eyes, her brown hair pulled back with barrettes. "You know your jacket and hat go on the coat rack. You're getting dirty snow all over the place."

He swallowed and shuffled to the coat rack near the front door. "Sorry, Ma."

She checked on baby Becca, then went back to the kitchen. His Dad set the table, then grabbed a beer from the ice box as Jimmy slipped out of his jacket and hat. His mom was busy over the stove, and his Dad snuck up behind her, wrapped his arms around her shoulders, and whispered in her ear. She giggled.

He slipped his mittens off, wincing as the knitted material stuck to his raw knuckles.

Ruth finally left the bathroom, her wild curls barely contained with a bow behind her head. He claimed the space before someone else did and rinsed his knuckles, then patted them dry on his dark pants.

His mother announced dinner was ready. Hand in his pocket, he jogged to the table and sat down. Ruth hopped onto her chair across from him while Ma got Maggie situated on her booster cushion.

His Dad said a prayer before they ate. Jimmy stabbed the green beans one-by-one with the fork in his right hand, hiding his left under the table.

He was finishing his pork chop when his mother leveled her gaze on him.

"So, Jimmy, how was school today?"

He swallowed, setting the bone on the plate. "Good." He lifted his napkin and wiped his fingers.

"Everything okay?" His mother leaned forward.

How did she know something was up? He wondered if his mother had a secret power to read minds.

"Everything's good," he said. "I have homework. Can I go?"

"You're excused."

He was out of his chair and in his room before she could say anything else. She didn't even ask him to help clean up. He closed his door, grabbed his bag from the floor, and hopped onto his bed.

The bedroom door opened, and his mom stood there, eyeing him. He hid his left hand with the bag and looked up at her with a smile. "Gotta read chapter three for Mrs. Simmons' class."

"I see." She moved into the room, eyeing the discarded boots and cluster of army figurines on his floor. "If you leave your toys around, they'll get stepped on and broken."

"I'll clean them up after I'm done reading."

She sat on the bed. "Let me see your hand."

Darn. He looked down at his lap and sighed, then lifted his hand for her inspection.

She took it in her own and frowned. "What did you do?"

"Nothing!" His chin shot up. "I swear. Johnny and Vinnie were beating up this scrawny kid to steal his money. I kicked Johnny into the snow, because he came at me when I told him to leave Steve—that's who they were picking on—alone. They lied to Mr Anderson that I hit Steve and he believed them and rapped my knuckles."

"Jimmy, are you telling me the truth?" there was a warning in her voice. "You sure you didn't do anything to earn those knuckles?"

"I swear, Ma."

"Okay." She patted his cheek.

He let go of the breath he'd been holding. She wasn't mad.

"Come on," she continued. "Let's get those knuckles cleaned up and put some mercurochrome on them."

No! "I already washed them…."

"Not the right way. I'll be fast. Let's go." She patted his leg and got to her feet.

With a heavy breath, he followed her to the bathroom like one of his toy soldiers on a doomed mission and took his place on the toilet seat. She retrieved the little first aid tin from behind the pedestal sink.

He closed his eyes as she worked. He flinched when the cool liquid stung his knuckles. His mother blew on it, and as he squeezed his eyelids shut, she brushed her hand through his hair and sang softly.

When blue skies are gray,
And nothing's okay.
Close your eyes a while.
Make believe and smile.

He rolled his eyes. "Ma, where'd you learn that song?"

Her answer was always the same, but she said it with a wink, so he couldn't be sure it was true.

"I made it up, just like the song says."

January 1925, Brooklyn, New York

With the promise of a cookie, Steve followed Bucky up the stairs to his family's second-floor apartment.

His parents were in the kitchen, a cookie in his Pa's hand.

"This is my friend, Steve," Bucky introduced.

His father approached and peered down at Steve with hazel eyes, the playful crinkle at the edges ruining the stern look. "What's your proper name, son?"

"Steven Grant Rogers, sir."

"Oh, George, leave the boy alone," Bucky's mother wore a yellow dress with tiny white flowers, covered by a checkered apron that clashed something awful. "The cookies are for dessert, but you can each have one now. Steve, you're welcome to stay for dinner," she added.

Two little girls bustled into the kitchen. One of them carried a baby.

"Ruth. Maggie. The baby is Becca," Bucky introduced and tugged Ruth's braid. She stuck her tongue out at him. "Aren't you glad you don't have to share with a bunch of sisters?" he teased.

"I wouldn't mind."

Suddenly Bucky thought Steve's feelings might be hurt. Kinda hard to get a brother or sister without a dad in the picture.

October 1925, Brooklyn, New York

"A little higher," Bucky yelled, the ball wound up behind his shoulder, ready to go.

Steve lifted the stick higher, and Bucky threw the ball, trying for a gentle curve so Steve might give the ball some distance this time if he hit it. The wood connected with a muffled thud, arching downward and bouncing off the blacktop.

"That was good." Bucky grabbed the ball and wound another pitch. "Keep it a bit more level with the ground when you swing."

He threw it again, and Steve swung the stick, going flat then arching upward. The ball sailed toward Bucky's midsection, but he caught it easily in his right hand. That was the best hit so far, and he beamed with pride. He always wanted a younger brother to school in the ways of baseball. He got three sisters instead, but at least now he had Steve, too.

"You'd give Dazzy Vance a run for his money with that one."

"I'd be out." Steve sounded breathless. "You caught it."

Bucky figured Steve had had enough, even if he wouldn't admit it. "Okay, so you're not ready for the Robins, yet."

Steve grinned, then folded forward into a coughing fit.

"Let's get home before you hack up a lung and worry your ma." He put his hand on Steve's shoulder. It was hot. "Hey, you're burning up."

They'd been playing too long, and Bucky was feeling it, too, so he should have figured Steve needed a break. The stubborn mule wouldn't say anything.

"Come on." He patted Steve on the back. "Your mom has that powder stuff, right to help you breathe?"

Steve nodded. "Yeah. I hate it."

"It helps though?"

He shrugged. "Sometimes."

When they made it up the steps to the apartment's front door, Steve was wobbly and pink. Bucky took off his jacket, hot from the walk back even though it was a breezy day. The trees had already started to turn colors, and soon it would be Halloween.

He loved Halloween. Costumes, pumpkins, and cookies. Next to Christmas, it was the most fun all year.

Everything about where Steve lived was different. The streets were dirt, and the apartment was tiny. Sarah was next to the stove, slicing up a platter of meatloaf. Plates were already on the small square table.

"Are ye stayin', Bucky?" She asked with her Irish brogue. Her blue eyes glanced at him with a smile that vanished the moment she saw them. "Stevie, yer sick."

She was there in front of them, kneeling in front of Steve, feeling his forehead. "Yer burnin' up." She glanced at Bucky and frowned.

Uh-oh. She's mad at me for keeping him out.

Her palm cupped Bucky's cheek. "Aww, sweetie, yer hot, too."

"Oh, I'm not sick. We were playing, and I walked here with him."

Sarah tilted her head, her eyes narrow as she studied him. "I'm a nurse, ya see? I know when someone's sick. Yer eyes are glassy, and yer face is flushed. I'm gonna ask Midge next door to call yer mom. If yer both sick, ye might as well stay here. No use givin' it to your sisters."

Oh, no, now his Ma was gonna worry, but he hoped she'd let him stay the night, just him and Steve, no sisters banging at his door. They'd better stay out of his Action Stories collection.

"Stevie and Bucky, strip to yer underwear and get into bed. Bucky, I'll get the couch cushions set up on the floor for ye."

"I can do it, Mrs. Rogers."

"You and Stevie get out of yer clothes and go wash up. Now, boys! Stevie, I'm gonna pop on over to Midge's, then I'll be right back and get the powder ready."

Fifteen minutes later, they were in the room, Steve on the bed and Bucky on the makeshift nest of couch cushions, wedged between the wall and the bed on the floor. Sarah came in with a tray and two steaming brown mugs and a pile of crackers.

"I traded Midge some meatloaf for some of her homemade soup." Sarah set the tray on the foot of the bed and handed out the mugs. "Bucky, yer mom's gonna stop by tomorrow to check in on the two of ye after I leave for work."

Bucky wrapped his hands around the warm ceramic and took a careful sip. Chicken broth. He looked in to see bits of chicken and mushy peas floating in the murky liquid. Maybe staying hadn't been the greatest idea. It was macaroni night at home.

Sarah sat on the edge of Steve's bed as he sipped the broth. "Awww, sweetie," she placed her palm on his forehead, "I hope it's not the flu or encephalitis."

Her brow was crinkled, and even as she smiled, her eyes looked worried. Bucky remembered the last time Steve was sick, just after Christmas. He'd coughed for two months and the walks to school in the snow took a lot out of him. They'd fought over Bucky carrying Steve's schoolbag. Steve hated to be coddled, but he never put up a fuss when his mom was the one doing the coddling.

They finished the soup, and Sarah took the empty cups away, then came back with a metal tin of Brater's powder. She set it on the worn table next to Steve's bed and lit it.

"I hate this," Steve muttered.

"Yeah, well, you like breathing don't ye?" Sarah said, patting him on the arm. "Big breaths."

Steve leaned over the smoke and sucked it in, which produced another coughing fit.

"Good job. I know." She rubbed Steve's back. "I swear, ye two are around each other all the time. Yer both bound to catch whatever the other has."

Bucky didn't like the sound of that. Was she going to stop letting Steve hang out with him?

"I'm not sick, I swear I didn't give it to him," Bucky said.

"Oh, Bucky, sweetie," she glanced at him with a smile, "of course not. I'm sure ye both got it from someone else around the same time." She looked back down at Steve. "Headaches or double vision?"

Steve shook his head. "Just tired and achy."

"We were playing stickball." Bucky shifted to his side, bunching the pillow beneath his head. "You shoulda seen the hit he made. Almost got me right in the stomach!" He shivered and pulled the blanket over his shoulders.

"Bucky's been showing me how to improve my game."

"Improve your game, huh?" Sarah chuckled and ruffled her fingers through the front of Steve's hair. "Well, if ya become a big shot baseball player, don't forget to visit yer ol' ma."

Steve sank back to bed as the smoke from the canister wafted into the air. "There aren't any baseball players with asthma."

"A strong heart will take ye further than any physical strength. A strong heart means ye'll never quit…and, well, ye never know what medicine they'll come up with in the next few years," Sarah said as she headed out. "Now, the two of ye better get some rest." She left the door open a crack.

Bucky was tired, but he couldn't get comfortable and didn't feel like sleep. "Hey, Steve?" he whispered.

"Yeah?"

"You check out that book I lent you?"

"Yep. It's not very long."

"Do you like the drawings?"

"Yeah, I do."

"Where is it? I can't sleep yet." He'd read it many times when he was six, but it was something to do, and he liked the illustrations.

There was a rustling, then Steve reached over and dropped The Velveteen Rabbit next to Bucky. The sun was still hanging low in the sky, and he pulled the curtain back for light. His eyelids grew heavy as he read, but he made it to the end, which was always a bit sad because, while the boy thought the Bunny looked familiar, he never did realize it was the Bunny he once loved. Yawning, Bucky set the book down, adjusted the blanket, and was instantly asleep.

Two hours later, Steve stopped breathing. Bucky woke up to a horrible, high-pitched wheezing sound and panicked. Steve was sitting up and banging his chest. At first, Bucky thought he was choking.

"Steve!" He pounded Steve's back, but it wasn't helping. Bucky stood up too quickly, and the room spun. It was so hot, no wonder Steve couldn't breathe.

Steve's mom would know what to do. He ran out of the room and banged on Sarah's door. He heard rustling and the tap footsteps, then the door opened.

"Steve—" he blurted.

She ran past him, hovered for a moment in the doorway to the bedroom, then turned and ran into the kitchen. She came back with a bottle, a spoon, and a match.

Bucky flipped on the light in the bedroom. Steve leaned forward, still wheezing, shaking, his arms clutched around himself.

"Okay, Stevie, one moment." She lit the powder, then uncorked the medicine bottle and poured out a spoon's worth. "Open."

Steve was awfully pale, and Sarah looked worried. He bit his lip, closed his eyes, and tilted his head up. Please, God, let Steve be okay. Thank you and amen.

When he opened his eyes, Steve was swallowing a mouthful of the medicine, then leaned over the smoke. It took a while, and Steve half passed out against Sarah as she rubbed circles on his back, but then he was breathing again.

"Feelin' better?" Sarah asked as she grabbed a stack of pillows from Steve's closet and propped him up with them.

Steve nodded. "Thanks." His voice was scratchy and weak.

"I'll stay here for a while. Get some sleep." She stroked the top of his head.

"I'm fine, Ma." Steve gave her a sheepish smile. "You got work."

"How about I watch out for Steve and—" because he knew the stubborn dummy was going to open his mouth with a crack, "he watches out for me." He patted the edge of the bed. "Scoot over, you bed hog."

Steve rolled his eyes and moved a few inches to the edge of the bed. Bucky slid beneath the covers and swung the pillow behind his head.

"Yer very sweet, Bucky—"

"Ma, it's okay," Steve said, and though his voice was still weak, the tone was brighter. "You gotta work early."

She hesitated, looking at them, then nodded. "Okay, as soon as ye lads are asleep."

"But—" Steve protested.

"No argument. Close yer eyes, the both of ye."

Bucky did as he was told, hoping he could at least pretend to be asleep good enough to convince Sarah. Her fingers brushed over his forehead, almost tickling, and then she sang the song he'd only ever heard from his mom.

When blue skies are gray,
And nothing's okay.
close your eyes a while.
Make believe and smile.

His mother hadn't made it up, after all. Maybe now he'd find out where it came from.

He cracked his eyes open to look at her. "Mrs. Rogers, where'd you learn that song?"

Through the moonlight filtering in through the window, he could see her smile. "From yer mother, Bucky. Now close yer eyes and work on getting to sleep."

So much for that. Must be his mom really did make it up. Just another thing their mom's swapped, in addition to recipes and hand-me-downs. Sometimes Steve got Bucky's old shirts, and sometimes Maggie got Steve's old mittens.

It was almost like having a brother. As he listened to Sarah sing, he wondered if Steve was still awake.

When you're sad and blue,
Don't know what to do.
Close your eyes a while.
Make believe and smile

When things all go wrong,
Just think of this song.
Give sorrow a reprieve.
Let your mind make believe.

Bucky was half asleep when he felt the mattress shift from the release of her weight. Her light footsteps carried to the door. He slid his arm across Steve's chest, feeling the rise and fall with each breath, and let it lull him the rest of the way into the world of make-believe.

The heat woke him. The room was stifling. Was the radiator turned all the way up? He opened his eyes to a dark room, with only the faint light of the moon filtering in through the thin curtains. He was on his stomach, his arm draped over something wet and hot.

"Steve!" Bucky pushed to his knees and shook his friend. "Hey, wake up! Steve?" He looked at the open bedroom door and yelled at the top of his lungs. "Mrs. Rogers! Mrs. Rogers!"

He heard a clatter, then footsteps, and a moment later, Sarah was there, her hand on Steve's forehead. "Thank ye for waking me, Bucky." She scooped Steve up in her arms. "We've gotta get'im to the hospital. Grab me purse."

The next few hours passed in a blur, and Bucky wasn't feeling great himself. He was in the lobby, wearing a cotton mask they tied around his head, when his mom hurried in, frantic. Her face crumpled with relief when she saw him. A moment later, he was in her arms.

"Are you okay, Jimmy? How's Steve?"

"Don't know. Haven't seen him since they took him." He pressed his face into his mother's shoulder. "He wouldn't wake up. We both have the same thing. Why is he so sick?"

"People are different. His body isn't as strong as yours, but his mother's a nurse here. They'll take good care of him."

"Mrs. Rogers said I could get you and my sisters sick if I go home. What if I get you sick, too?" What if his mom or his sisters ended up in the hospital?

She stroked the back of his head, then pulled back and ducked her head to look at him. "That mask is doing its job, okay? Don't worry about me. You're a kind, sweet boy. You know that?"

He sniffled and nodded.

"Say I'm kind," she told him.

"I'm too old for—"

"Jimmy…" she warned, "Say I'm kind."

He gave into a sigh that ended with a smile and looked around the lobby to make sure no one would overhear him. There was a nurse behind the desk and a woman seated against the opposite wall.

"I'm kind," he whispered.

"And brave. Louder."

Mommmm! "And brave."

"And smart," she prodded.

"And smart."

"And I'll pick up my toys when I get home."

He rolled his eyes. "I'll pick up my toys when I get home."

"Good man." She ruffled his hair.

"Mommm!"

"Don't 'Mommm!' me. Stay here. I'm going to check on Sarah and Steve."

He was on his feet. "Can I come with you?"

"No, honey, stay here. Keep your mask on."

His mom spoke to the desk nurse, then headed through a door, out of sight. He plopped into the chair and swung his legs. He was tired, achy, and thirsty. The mask kept creeping up to his eyes, annoying him. He wanted to curl up and go to sleep, but he couldn't, not until his Mom came back and told him Steve was okay.

Some time later, he woke to a hand on his forehead and opened his eyes to see his mom's face, her eyes wet and tired. "Hey, baby, Sarah says you can go in and see Steve now, if you want."

"Steve's okay?" He stumbled out of the chair, caught by his mother's hands.

"He's holding his own." She took his hand. "Come on, we'll go see him together."

They walked through the doorway and down a hallway, stopping at the third door to the right. It was a large room with beds lined against opposing walls and open windows that brought in a cool breeze. Most of the beds were occupied, some people were awake, others asleep.

Sarah was on the left, her hair limp and dull, her eyes red. She sat next to a tiny figure that barely made a bump beneath the white sheet covering him up to his neck. A white mask covered his nose and mouth, just like the ones Bucky, the nurses, and the doctors wore. Bucky didn't have the energy to run, but he moved as fast as his legs would carry him.

"How're ye feelin', Bucky?" Sarah asked with a tired smile.

"I'm okay." He was tired and achy, but Steve had the worst of it. It wasn't fair. "I'm sorry."

Sarah blinked at him. "What for, sweetie?"

He shrugged, not sure how to put what he was feeling into words.

"Hey," a weak voice greeted, and the misery of the room lifted a notch when Bucky saw the tired blue eyes gazing at him.

"Hey yourself." He slapped Steve's legs. "All this just to get out of school?"

The tiniest of smiles lifted Steve's lips. "You're out, too."

"Yeah."

His mom slid a couple of chairs up. "Here you go, Jimmy. We can stay for a little while."

He sat down and leaned his heavy head against the mattress. Tiny fingers scratched his head, and he fell into a hard sleep.

The next time he woke, someone was shaking him. Light streamed through the windows, and he was in the bed with one arm draped over Steve's chest, which rose and fell with a shallow, steady rhythm. Instead of hot, clammy skin, Steve was cool and damp.

"Drink this, Jimmy." His mom held a porcelain cup to his lips, and he rolled over, lifted his head, and took a few sips before handing it back to his mom. "Steve doesn't feel hot, anymore."

Steve's eyelids fluttered open, and he smiled. "I'm feeling better."

"Hey!" Bucky sat up and turned to him. "Really? Think we can fly the coop soon?"

"I hope so. I don't like hospitals." He turned his head, his eyes searching. "Where's my Mom?"

"She's freshening up, sweetie," Winnie said. "The doctor says you turned a corner and should be able to go home in a few hours if all goes well."

A few minutes later, Sarah came back, looking a little brighter, but her eyes were still red and puffy. His mom walked to meet her halfway, and the two spoke in hushed whispers. Sarah shook her head several times, fresh tears glistening in her eyes.

He caught a few words from his mom. "…took up a collection, don't you worry…"

A few hours later, they were on their way home, in the back of a cab, with Steve enveloped by something the doctor called a pneumonia jacket.