CHAPTER 2: The 1930s

1930, Coney Island, NY

It was massive, terrifying, and absolutely amazing! "Just look at it, Steve!"

"I'm lookin' and no way." Steve stuffed the last of his hot dog into his mouth and swallowed hard.

Bucky decided he was going on it, with or without Steve, but it would be so much more fun with him. "Come on." A grin split his face and he slapped Steve on the shoulder, a little too hard because Steve stumbled forward. Oops. "Everyone's going on it, look at the line! We can't come all the way to Coney Island and not ride the Cyclone."

"You go on it. I'll wait here."

Bucky took a deep breath and faced Steve. "Look, it's safe. All these people are riding it." He spotted a young girl around their age in line and pointed to her. "Even she's riding it."

"It's too expensive," Steve protested.

"Twenty-five cents is all. I hear it cost them a hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars to build. A hundred and seventy-five thousand, Steve, and we can ride it for 25 cents!"

"I don't know, Bucky…"

Bucky bit his lower lip and looked up at the massive wooden rollercoaster, then back at Steve. "Come on, man. I'll go on it by myself, but it'd be fun to do it together. I won't let your punk ass fall out. I promise."

Steve's gaze drifted upward, his eyes going wider and wider when a section of riders, their hands in the air, screamed as they plummeted. "I, uh…" He looked at Bucky, uncertain for a moment, then squared his shoulders and nodded. "Okay."

"You won't regret it!" Bucky patted him on the back and ran to the end of the ticket line, beating a couple of girls who looked to be in their late teens. Bucky slapped down fifty cents with a quick look at Steve and a hurried "my idea, so it's on me," then handed Steve his ticket and ran to the end of the Cyclone line.

When it was their turn, they hurried past the ticket taker. Steve slid into the seat, picking the inside track, and Bucky happily sat near the outside edge.

As the car started to climb, Steve tensed, and Bucky shot him a wicked grin. "This is gonna be great. You'll see."

Steve swallowed hard as he looked over the edge and gripped the metal rail in front of him. They approached the top of the drop and could see nothing but the air in front of them for a second until the gloriously blue coastline came into view. Then, they dropped.

Bucky's stomach felt like it was in his throat. He clutched the back of Steve's jacket with one hand and the rail with the other and screamed at the top of his lungs. His heart pounded in his chest as they hit the bottom of the drop and the car rocketed back up another incline that twisted to the left.

He looked over to see Steve pale-faced and wide-eyed, cheeks bulging.

Oh, crap, don't upchuck on me!

Steve swallowed hard, but Bucky could do nothing but clutch at the rail when they went into another drop, then a climb, and drop again.

This was the best day of his life! He screamed with the rest of the riders, enjoying the dizzying scenery and gazing at the tiny parkgoers below.

When the ride came to a stop, Steve shoved Bucky out of the car and ran past him toward the nearest trash can. He clutched the metal sides and retched into it.

"Awww, man." Bucky walked up to him. "The hot dog came back up, huh?" He was impressed Steve was able to keep it down until they got off the ride. That deserved a slap on the back, which he delivered with gusto. "Good job holding it off. Woulda been gross had you spewed up there."

Steve straightened, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, his arm trembling, and shook his head. His face was pale and his eyes wet. "I threw up on the ride but swallowed it, and that made me throw up again. I just held it in my mouth after that."

Was Steve pulling his leg? The paleness of his face and the horror in his eyes sure looked genuine. Imagining what that must have been like—tasted like, felt like—eww!—his own stomach did a flip.

"Oh, man! Yuck!" He spun around, hands over his head. "Steve, my GOD, you are a hero! That was above and beyond. Unbelievable!"

"I don't feel very heroic," Steve said, opening and closing his mouth unpleasantly.

Bucky imagined the chaos that would've been caused by vomit being blasted back through the air in a high-velocity spray over the riders behind them. He almost hurled into the trashcan himself. "Are you kidding me? You saved me. You saved the people behind us." He pictured the expressions that would've crossed the faces behind them, and doubled over laughing. "I mean…they'd all be…." he could barely get the words out amid his hysteria, "…traumatized! They'd never ride another roller coaster again! You saved them from an experience that would've haunted them for the rest of their lives!"

1931, Brooklyn, NY

"Hands up, Steve, left foot forward, right foot back, elbows in." Bucky faced Steve in the alley, fists in the air. "You ready to take a swing at me." He grinned, staying light on his feet.

"I don't need to get ready to clock you, but you better be ready," Steve shot back, looking up at Bucky, his fists poised in front of his face.

"I'm ready, Punk. Let's see what you got."

Steve's right fist drove forward and up, and Bucky tilted back, evading.

"You need cheaters for those eyes?" Bucky taunted.

"I can see your ugly mug just fine."

They danced a bit, with Steve flinging blows and Bucky evading, letting Steve get the rhythm, the feel of the proper stance and, whenever his fists dropped, reminding him to keep them high, at ready.

"Now, let's switch." Bucky shook out his limbs. "I'll throw a few your way, and you gotta block with your hands or evade."

They sparred a few more times. Steve tripped over his own feet twice, and Bucky accidentally landed a punch that sent Steve careening into a trash can.

Crap. "Sorry! You moved right into my fist." He crouched down to help Steve up.

"I'm fine." Steve batted his hand away and scrambled to his feet, fists up again. "You hit like your baby sister."

There was that gumption Bucky respected. Steve never quit, and he hated to be helped up or coddled. Most of the time it was admirable. Sometimes, it was a pain in the ass.

They boxed for another half an hour, until they were both panting. Steve was small, but by the end, he was steadier on his feet and keeping his fists up. Maybe, just maybe, he might give the next bully a run for his money.

Bucky learned long ago not to let Steve win at anything. He didn't take kindly to it. One of their worst arguments had been after Bucky let Steve get in a few good shots during a snowball fight. That one lasted three days until, finally, Steve met him on the way to school one morning and pretended like nothing had ever happened.

The punk.

"Okay, enough." Bucky gave the time-out signal. "I gotta be home for dinner soon."

"Yeah," Steve panted. "A deal's a deal, though."

Even Steven, for sure, Bucky smiled inwardly at his silent joke. They'd spat and shook on it. Bucky would teach Steve some boxing moves if Steve would show Bucky how to draw, just the basics. Steve was way ahead of anything Bucky could hope to replicate, but he figured it might be fun learning to doodle. It always seemed to calm Steve, and maybe, just maybe, he could draw something for his mom for Christmas, especially since he wasn't making any money from odd jobs these days.

Times were hard. His dad was worried, even though he never talked about it in front of Bucky or his sisters, but Bucky could tell. He'd overheard his folks a few times. He wasn't a kid anymore, and he could see with his own eyes what was happening. Too many people had lost jobs, and mom wasn't getting sewing business anymore on account of so many of her customers being out of work.

She also wasn't cooking as much from scratch. Instead, they ate a lot of canned foods. President Hoover said they were in a great depression. Bucky was worried. If his dad lost his job, what would happen to them? The only good thing that came out after stocks dropped like Tod Morton in the ring was Rocky Road ice cream, which was darn near perfect except for the marshmallows.

1934, Brooklyn

"Please, Bucky, ye have to promise me." Sarah peered at him over the mask, and even those few words cost her. She coughed, deep rattling sounds that shuddered her frail body.

She was right. How could he refuse her? He didn't know if he had the heart to do it, but he also didn't know if he had the heart to not do it.

He fucking hated the world. Sarah deserved better than this. Steve sure as hell did.

"I'll try," he croaked, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. She knew her son and knew the monumental task she was asking.

Nothing would stop a determined Steve, but Bucky would try. "He'll hate me," he whispered. It was a selfish admission, and he felt like crap even as the words left his mouth.

"I canna bear the thought of passing this on to him. It'll kill him, ye know that." Another coughing fit tore through her. He hated what each one did to her, the pain he saw in her face, the weakness of her voice. "I'm goin' to a better place. I dinna want to be up there and watch'im die before his time. Promise me, Bucky."

"I promise, Sarah."

A cool fall breeze snaked through the open windows and into the hospital ward. The doctors thought the fresh air helped. Truthfully, nothing could help Sarah. Bucky knew that. So did Steve.

And it was tearing Steve up. His mother hadn't let him visit, and when she finally asked to speak to Bucky, not Steve, the look on Steve's face was….

…heartbreaking.

Bucky felt like a traitor as he left Steve in the lobby, sulking in a chair, eyes red, almost curled into himself.

"Yer a good young man, Bucky. Ye always have been." She coughed, and he saw a glint of red through the white cotton mask.

Death sucked. Why were human bodies so frail? Sarah? Steve. It wasn't right. It sure as hell wasn't fair.

"Go to him," she pleaded. "Even if he pushes ye away, be there for him."

"You know I will."

Then, he left her, laying in the hospital bed, condemning her to die alone by the promise she tore from him. He found Steve in the lobby, huddled in the same chair, looking up at the sound of Bucky's footsteps, and suddenly, Steve was on his feet, that fire in his eyes.

Shit.

He knew. Steve fucking knew, and he wasn't going to have it. He pushed past Bucky, side-chucking him with his shoulder. There was no force behind it, though not for trying, and Bucky did the thing he knew Steve would hate him for.

He grabbed Steve's stick-thin arm and held him back. "No, Steve. You can't."

"The hell I can't." Steve tried to yank away, but Bucky had made Sarah a promise, and a promise to a dying woman was a promise he could never break, not even for Steve.

"It's not safe for you. She loves you, Steve. She wants to go in peace, knowing you're safe."

Steve leveled hard eyes up at Bucky, his jaw tight. "Let go of me."

"I can't do that."

And then the fight began, in the lobby, until Bucky lifted Steve in a bear hug and dragged him, kicking and cursing, out of the building.

The angry promises Steve hurtled cut worse than the sharpest knives. Promises that their friendship was over. That Bucky had crossed a line. That he'd never forgive Bucky for keeping him from his mother.

Terrible promises that Bucky knew Steve meant, wholeheartedly, with every cell of his vulnerable body, because Steve never said anything he didn't mean.

Then they were wrestling on the ground, until Steve got to his feet and threw a few punches, and Bucky deflected. When Steve tried to dart around him, Bucky intercepted, pushing, shoving, and doing everything he could to keep his word to Sarah.

Because when she died, she'd be watching, and if Steve caught tuberculosis and joined her before his time, Sarah Rogers was just ornery enough to haunt him. You just didn't break a promise to someone dying. Steve would understand that if it were anyone other than his mother.

But Steve didn't understand, and he wouldn't budge. The day began to fade, and Bucky knew Steve would stand outside all night until he found a way past the desk nurse and into the ward. He hadn't given up yet, even as his mother refused him, day after day.

They knew her. She worked there. They knew Steve and his frailties, and they abided by her wishes for Steve's own good. But it was agony to watch Steve be rejected again and again, knowing his mother was fading and he'd likely never see her alive again, never get to say a final goodbye.

"Goddamnit, Steve!" Bucky had enough. He couldn't do it. He couldn't live with himself, and he sure as hell couldn't let Sarah do this to Steve.

But he also couldn't break his promise. So, he did the only thing he could. He grabbed Steve by the collar and dragged him around the back of the hospital, to the open window that he was pretty sure was near Sarah's bed. It was six feet up, so he kneeled.

"Get on my shoulders, and so help me God, Steve, if you try to climb through that window into the ward, I'll knock you on your ass so hard you won't get up for a week." He didn't say things he didn't mean, either, not when it mattered. And nothing had ever mattered more than right now. "Talk to her. Say your goodbyes."

The ire melted from Steve's face, coalescing into something broken and horrified. The truth was there, written in the crease of Steve's brow and the subtle trembling of his bottom lip. He gave a curt nod, then climbed on Bucky's shoulders. With a grunt, Bucky pushed to his feet.

Steve leaned against the brick, his head peeking in through the window. "Ma?"

Bucky could barely make out Sarah's weak voice, but he heard every cough as though it were rattling through his own body.

"Ma, I love you…. I… I just want to see you. Please…."

He heard her pleading, felt the sorrow in her voice, even if he couldn't make out the words. He knew what she was saying.

She was saying goodbye.

"Okay, Mom." Not Ma. Mom. It meant Steve was finally accepting the inevitable. "I'll be okay. Don't worry about me. I can get by just fine. I love you."

When Steve hopped down, he threw a dark look at Bucky, then shoved his hands in his jacket pockets, turned, and walked away.

The funeral was a week later. Steve avoided him, avoided everyone, huddled in the chair in the front, with Bucky on his right and the rest of the Barnes on his left, but he said nothing other than a muttered "thank you for coming," and kept his eyes on the closed coffin.

After the funeral, Steve disappeared. Bucky's folks were worried. They wanted to give him a ride to the cemetery, but Steve was gone.

Bucky waited at the only place he knew Steve would turn up. The apartment.

"We looked for you after," Bucky said softly, climbing the stairs behind Steve as the Church bells tolled down the street. "My folks wanted to give you a ride to the cemetery."

"I know. I'm sorry. Kinda wanted to be alone."

"How was it?" It was a stupid thing to ask, and he felt like a jerk.

"It's okay. She's next to Dad."

Mr. Baker came out of his apartment but paid them no mind. For that, Bucky was grateful.

"I was gonna ask…."

Steve fumbled in his pockets for the key to the door, never once making eye contact. "I know what you're gonna say, Buck, it's just…"

He couldn't stand the thought of Steve wallowing in the empty apartment. "You can put the couch cushions on the floor like when we were kids. It'll be fun. All you gotta do is shine my shoes, maybe take out the trash."

Steve was still searching his pockets, his mind obviously far away as he continued to avoid eye contact. Bucky wouldn't let Steve push him away. He'd promised Sarah that, too. Steve could be stubborn, but this was one battle Bucky was determined to win. He toppled the brick with his foot and grabbed the key, handing it to Steve.

"Come on…"

"Thank you, Buck," Steve looked at him, and the finality in that gaze hurt, "but I can get by on my own."

It was Bucky's turn to look away from the despair in those eyes. He just needed a moment. Steve was an orphan now, the last of his line. He could only imagine how lonely that felt.

"The thing is…" Bucky shook his head, wishing he could make it right, determined to at least make it better, "….you don't have to." He put a hand on Steve's shoulder, at the crook of his neck, and held firm. "I'm with you 'til the end of the line, Pal."

This time, his gaze didn't waver, but Steve's did, and when Steve looked back up, the mask fell for a moment, replaced by a sad, grateful smile and a crinkle between his eyes that told Bucky their friendship was still solid.

Steve spent the night at Bucky's, and the next day, Bucky helped Steve with his mother's things. They split a bottle of whiskey Bucky had swiped from his Dad, though the look from his father told Bucky he wasn't much of a thief. Steve got drunk. Really drunk, and for the first time since Bucky had known him, Steve sobbed, broken, shuddering sobs that broke Bucky's heart.

Two weeks later, Bucky convinced Steve to let him move in—going over all the practicalities and making sure to complain extra hard about having to share one bathroom with four females—and packed up his things.

His mother wrapped her arms around him and gave him the longest, tightest hug he'd ever had. Her familiar scent of roses and citrus gave rise to a sudden ache in his chest. "Please visit every week."

"I'm just moving a few blocks away, Ma." He wrapped her in his arms and blew a playful kiss on her cheek. "I'll be around all the time."

"Winnie, the boy's within walking distance," his father said. "I'm sure he'll be over here all the time for laundry and food."

"You can count on that!" He finally extricated himself from his mother.

His father came in next with a firm, quick hug, then shook his hand. Bucky felt the money and shoved it into his father's shirt pocket. "Thanks, Dad, but I can't take this. I got enough to get by." He'd been saving a quarter of his money from every odd job he'd ever done since he was a kid and the little he'd made the past few months boxing. The rest he'd split between his folks and spending money.

"It's a Barnes tradition from father to son."

"I never heard of that tradition before."

"Just started. You'll carry it on."

"Here." His mother put a large platter of food in his hands. The aroma of baked goods tempted him as he lifted the lid. There was banana bread and a neat collection of cookies.

"Okay, the car's loaded, so let's get a move on."

His sisters swarmed him. Ruth wrapped her arms around his neck and gave a peck to his cheek. "I'm taking your room, just so you know, so no changing your mind."

"No, you're not!" Margaret argued, then took her turn squeezing him.

Finally, there was little Becca. She gazed up at him with her sad, blue eyes.

"Hey." He set the platter gently on the floor as he knelt in front of her. "I'm just a few blocks away. I'll be here all the time. You can come visit whenever you want."

She threw herself into his arms, her small hands wrapped around his neck, and buried her face against his chest. "I'm gonna miss you, big brother."

"No, you're not," he teased. "You'll forget you even had a brother by next week."

She pulled back and blinked at him. "Are you gonna forget about us?"

Oh, hell. Him and his big, stupid mouth. "How can I? I'm gonna be over here all the time for Ma's cooking." Then he gave her a kiss on the forehead. "I'd say 'be good' but I know that's never gonna happen."

She punched his shoulder. "Get out of here, kid, you're bothering me."

She was parroting the words he used to tease her with right back at him, and he laughed, then grabbed the platter, and pushed to his feet.

His folks drove him and his stuff the few blocks to Steve's place and helped him carry everything. They exchanged more hugs, with his mom squeezing Steve to within an inch of his life, then they said their final goodbyes and left. Bucky took a moment to look around. The place was spotless. Steve had obviously scrubbed it from top to bottom.

With an approving nod, Bucky lifted the lid on the platter and grabbed a cookie. "Place looks good. You've been busy." He took a bite of the butter cookie.

"And you're getting crumbs all over the floor," Steve said.

Bucky smiled and finished the rest of the cookie with one bite. "Oh, it's gonna be like that, is it?"

Steve looked away briefly, his nonchalance crumbling for a split second, revealing the lingering grief behind his otherwise strong eyes. "Are you sure you're okay with this, Buck? Leaving your family, staying here. It's not as nice as your place."

"Oh, hell, yes." Bucky slung an arm around Steve's shoulders. "Two guys with one bathroom vs six people and one bathroom? It's no contest. May I never have to do an emergency pee in the snow again."

That got a laugh out of Steve, and they finished half the cookies as they chatted about chore lists and ground rules.

Bucky wasn't sure about the room situation. Of course, they'd discussed it, but it still didn't feel right moving into the room that used to be Sarah's, so he slept on the couch for two nights, living out of the boxes. Getting dressed one day, he found the $25 bucks his father had snuck into a shirt pocket.

Damnit, Dad.

On the fourth day, he stepped out to the corner store and came back to find his boxes gone.

"Steve?" He asked, putting the bag on the kitchen counter. There was only one place they could be unless he'd annoyed Steve so much in three days that his stuff was in a pile somewhere outside.

"You're paying rent, Bucky. It's stupid you sleeping on the couch. I put your stuff in the spare bedroom."

The spare bedroom. Those three words hurt Bucky to his core, and yet Steve didn't even flinch as he said them.

"Okay." He cleared the sudden gunk from his throat. "Thanks."

March 10, 1937

Bucky forced his heavy legs up the steps to his apartment, his shoulders slumped with fatigue. He was twenty years old today, but at the moment, he felt a whole lot older. His arms ached, and a headache pounded behind his eyes.

He'd spent the morning in class, the afternoon at the docks, and a few hours trading punches in the ring. The sun was on its way below the horizon, and though the day had only just ended, he was exhausted. Even though his father had a desk job, Bucky was beginning to understand the toll working all day and coming home to chores took on a body.

As he came to the landing in front of his door, he saw their clothes hanging out on the line. What the hell? Steve should be just getting home himself. Wednesday was factory work in the morning and art class in the evenings for Steve. When did he have time to do laundry?

He opened the door. Steve sat at the tiny table near the kitchen, an upward curve to his lips and an exhausted slump to his shoulders. Two place settings took up the entire surface. A covered dish sat on the kitchen counter, and the warm aroma of chicken casserole hit Bucky instantly, eliciting a grumble from his empty stomach.

He smiled as he closed the door. "What's all this?"

Steve grinned and pushed to his feet. "Happy birthday, Buck."

"How the hell…?" He lifted the lid of the familiar porcelain dish. "Mom bring this over?"

Steve laughed. "Yeah. She says we better be at their place Saturday for a proper celebration, but," he gestured to the oven, "I baked the cake. Now sit, and I'll get your plate full."

"You're waiting on me?" Bucky chuckled, slipping out of his jacket and hanging it by the door.

"All part of the birthday service."

"When did you have time? Laundry, baking?" He eyed the torn knuckles on Steve's right hand. "The washboard got you again, huh?"

Steve glanced at his hand and shrugged. "I don't quite have mom's skill. I skipped class to get it all done."

Laundry alone would've taken most of the day. Scrubbing, boiling, wringing it out, and hanging it. With a shake of his head, Bucky shuffled to the closet of a bathroom and washed up. When he came back, both plates were filled with steaming casserole and a baked potato. A bottle of beer sat glistening next to each plate.

"This is damn near perfect." Bucky sat down, surveyed everything, then looked at the man seated across from him. "Thanks, Pal."

Steve raised his beer, and Bucky followed suit, clinking the bottles together.

"Happy birthday," Steve said. "How does it feel to be the big two-oh?"

Bucky took a long sip and rubbed at his neck. "Truth be told, I kinda miss my teens."

April 1937, Brooklyn

"Ouch."

"You might need stitches."

Bucky leaned back in the kitchen chair and tried not to wince under Steve's ministrations. "Nah, it'll be fine. So, he got in a lucky punch? I smelled something funny and got a little woozy. I think that dirty cheat put chloroform on his glove."

"Yeah, well, he nearly took out your left eye. Your hooks are too wide. You leave yourself open sometimes."

"Puts more power in the swing, though."

Steve grimaced. "You don't have to do this, you know."

Bucky was tired of this argument. He heard it from his Mom and Steve before and after every fight. "Times are tough. Roosevelt might turn this economy around, but in the meantime, we gotta pay rent, and this pays the rent."

Three hundred bucks gave him and Steve a nice cushion on the rent and let him help his folks out.

"Yeah, well, I'll figure out something on my end."

Bucky sighed. Steve refused to accept anything he saw as a handout after he lost the job at the factory, as if they hadn't grown up with one another. As if they weren't family. "You patch up my wounds, and that saves me a trip to the clinic and the hit to my wallet, so let's just call it even."

"Thanks, but—"

"Look, things'll turn around. You'll sell a few drawings. In the meantime, we have the rent, and we have enough to eat." He grunted as Steve used something brutal that stung like a son of a bitch. "Jesus!"

"You can take a beating, but not a little sting? Don't want the wound to go bad. Mom taught me well. If you're gonna be a baby about it, I can blow on it and sing your mom's song."

The little punk and his big mouth… "You want to blow something? I'll give you something to blow."

Steve choked and sputtered, then wheezed with laughter to the point where Bucky was about to get the can of powder, but then he caught his breath and his blue eyes danced with humor. Those eyes framed by thick brows were Steve's best features. Sooner or later, some gal would look beyond Steve's compact stature and fall for those eyes, and when that happened, everything would change.

"You were doing a good job keeping your fists up." Steve slapped him on the arm. "How are the shoulders?"

He rolled them. "They'll be achy and stiff tomorrow or the next day, I'm sure."

"Okay, let's see." Steve shifted behind him and worked on the right shoulder blade. He had no strength behind his hands, but Bucky didn't dare say a word about that. "How's that?" Steve asked.

"Good."

"Is it doing anything?"

"Maybe try your elbow."

The flat pressure changed to sharp as Steve shifted and leaned in. He hit a spot that had Bucky wincing.

Steve eased up. "Sorry."

"It's okay."

"How's the neck?" Steve moved his ministrations to the other shoulder.

"I'll wear one of my sweaty socks around it tonight."

"Yuck."

"I swear it works."

"I think my mom would say it's probably the heat that helps."

"Your mom was a smart lady."

Steve was silent for a bit as he worked his elbows along Bucky's upper back, then he whispered. "Yeah, she was"

May 7, 1937, Brooklyn

Bucky burst through the front door, a newspaper in his hand, breathing heavy, startling Steve on the couch, who dropped his pad and pencil and shot to his feet.

"It crashed! It's on the radio!" Bucky tossed the paper at Steve, ran to the radio, and turned it to the broadcast.

"What—?" Steve's question died when he dropped his gaze to the front page of the newspaper.

Bucky held up a hand as the reporter's voice filled their small apartment.

"The back motors of the ship are just holding it (uh) just enough to keep it from...It's burst into flames! Get this, Charlie; get this, Charlie! It's fire... and it's crashing! It's crashing terrible! Oh, my! Get out of the way, please! It's burning and bursting into flames and the... and it's falling on the mooring mast and all the folks between it. This is terrible; this is one of the worst of the worst catastrophes in the world. Oh it's...its flames... Crashing, oh! oh, four or five hundred feet into the sky, and it's a terrific crash, ladies and gentlemen. There's smoke, and there's flames, now, and the frame is crashing to the ground, not quite to the mooring mast. Oh, the humanity, and all the passengers screaming around here! I told you; it – I can't even talk to people, their friends are on there! Ah! It's... it... it's a... ah! I... I can't talk, ladies and gentlemen. Honest: it's just laying there, a mass of smoking wreckage. Ah! And everybody can hardly breathe and talk and the screaming. I... I... I'm sorry. Honest: I... I can hardly breathe. I… I'm going to step inside, where I cannot see it. Charlie, that's terrible. Ah, ah... I can't, I... Listen, folks; I... I'm gonna have to stop for a minute because I've lost my voice. This is the worst thing I've ever witnessed."

There was a moment of static, then another voice came over the radio, talking about the Hindenburg.

"My God." Steve sank back onto the couch, "but it happened yesterday."

"This reporter was on the scene in Jersey recording."

"This is a news recording? They do that now?"

"There's a first time for everything." Bucky shook his head, imagining all those people burning alive. God, what a terrible way to go.

So much for the pride of Nazi Germany.

"Some people think it was sabotaged," Steve said, looking up from the paper.

"Well, Hitler's a goon and a grifter. I wouldn't be surprised, but it would take a hard-boiled guy to kill that many innocent people to give the Nazi's a black eye."

Brooklyn, 1938

"Are you two staying for dinner?" Winnie asked, setting the table.

"Can't." He grabbed a couple of rolls from the table, handed one to Steve as he shoved the other in his mouth, and slung his arm over Steve's shoulders. "We have dates."

He suddenly had his mother's full attention. She turned to him, arms crossed, head tilted. "Who is she, and is she serious this time?"

"Nah." He guided Steve toward the door. "I just met her."

"Who?" Steve asked. "You didn't mention anything about dates."

"That gal I met at Rockaway Beach. Dot. I asked her to round up a friend for a double date."

"When are you gonna settle down, Jimmy?" his mother asked. "You're twenty-one. You should be looking for someone who's marriage material."

"I got time, Ma. Don't worry."

Maggie emerged from the hallway and practically vaulted into the living room. "No one's gonna wanna marry yucky Bucky."

Steve barked a laugh that made Bucky adjust his arm into a soft chokehold and grunt, "Traitor." He released Steve, spinning to face his sister and throwing his arms wide. "Your friend Emily would disagree."

She glared at him with hazel eyes she'd gotten from their father, proving she was still sore about Emily ditching her on a Saturday night for a movie with him. Bucky resisted the urge to stick his tongue out at her. Grown men didn't do that, and he was technically a grown man now. So, he ignored her and slipped into his jacket. He and Steve headed out the door.

"So, who is she?" Steve asked as they headed toward their apartment.

"I don't know her friend's name, but Dot says she's nice."

"What did you tell her about me?"

He slapped Steve's chest. "Don't worry. I talked you up."

"But not too much, right?"

Bucky rolled his eyes. "It's just a night out, Steve. Consider it practice learning to talk to a woman."

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

FYI: The Coney Island bit is loosely based on a true story (don't worry, it did not happen to me, thank goodness!). Comments give my brain a little burst of dopamine, so I appreciate whatever feedback you're so inclined to leave (comment, kudos, or heck even just sharing it somewhere so others can find it).

I did a great deal of historical research for these early years chapters, but if you notice any historical inaccuracies, feel free to let me know that, too!

One little historical tidbit: The famous Hindenburg radio broadcast wasn't live. It was captured by Herb Morrison, who was playing around with recording. It was broadcast the next day on radios and added later to news reel footage. Morrison's recording was the FIRST recorded radio news broadcast. Also, there's some debate on whether the now-famous recording was inadvertently sped up slightly because apparently Morrison had a richer, more measured voice.

Also, the reason the Germans used the highly explosive Hydrogen in the craft was because the United States was pretty much the only source of helium at the time and didn't want to share with Germany out of concern helium could be used for military purposes by Nazi, Germany.

There, now you have some Trivia knowledge that might come in handy in a game someday! Or if you happen to find yourself time traveling.