Amusements

March 1929

"Come on, Stevie, lad. Drink it all now."

Like all medicines, it tasted horrible, but he did as his mother commanded.

"There." She patted him on the back and took the cup, slipping something else into his hand. He valiantly held back the terrific urge to spit, gulped instead, and looked down.

His head shot back up, but his mother had already left the bedroom. He stared back at the hunk of gingerbread in his palm. "Me mam's the best," he murmured hoarsely.

A cough rose in his chest. He stifled it and sat back, nibbling on his gingerbread.

"Hey," said a loud, cheerful voice. "Got any for me?"

Startled, Steve looked up to see Bucky standing in the doorway. His face was red from the cold, and Steve noticed his feet were bare.

"Socks got soaked, thanks to the bloody slush out there," Bucky said, coming across to plump down on the end of the bed.

"You watch your language, young man," Sarah Rogers scolded, coming in drying her hands on her apron.

"Can I have–" Bucky started

"May I."

"May I have some gingerbread, Mrs. Rogers?"

She laughed and flicked him with her apron. Steve had a sudden surge of happiness at seeing his mother smile; Bucky did that to a lot of people, actually.

"Aye, lad, I'll get your gingerbread. After I slip a little castor oil in it." Her laughter floated in her wake as she headed to the kitchen. They were all laughing, Steve immediately taking a coughing fit.

They sprawled on the bed, playing card games, eating more gingerbread, and reading the stack of comics Bucky had saved up. Buck Rogers and Tarzan were their favourites. Steve had his sketchbook out and Bucky was making up some wild adventures of his own, when Sarah Rogers popped her head in.

"Bucky? It's almost suppertime. Do your parents know where you are?"

"Yes'm, but…" He sprang up. "Oh, gosh! Suppertime?! It'll be dark. I'll have to call Dad."

"We don't have a phone," Steve said.

"But I know Mrs. Romano would let you use hers," his mother said.

"It's snowing again," came Buck's voice from the front room. "Dad'll hate taking out the car in this weather." He came back, frowning.

"Aw, Mam, couldn't he stay the night?" Steve asked, suddenly excited.

"And catch your cold?" she exclaimed. "I think not!"

Buck was grinning. "I wouldn't be catching any colds, ma'am. Aunt Margarita's been sniffling all week. If it was going to hit me, I would have got the KO already."

Sarah Rogers sighed. "Well, telephone your father, and see what he says anyway. I'll take you down to Anna- Mrs. Romano's."

Steve sat on the bed, waiting for them to return, thinking. He noticed how much better he was feeling, and smiled. Just Bucky, a breath of fresh air. Hot air, Aunt Margarita called him. It was like Buck was strong and fast and… dashing. Yes, dashing. And that made Steve feel stronger and better and… not quite dashing. But almost.

The best kind of brother. And annoying as the dickens.

He reached for his sketchbook, formed a picture from a hazy thought: he and Buck in hero getup, guns in hand, flying across the universe. Below Bucky's feet, he wrote 'Buck', and beneath himself 'Rogers'. He smiled at it for a minute, then hastily tore it out, folded it, and scamper- nope, wobbled across the room to the wardrobe, where he tucked it into a little cardboard box of special things.

He made it back to the bed before Bucky came bounding in, smiling. "I'm staying the night," he announced. "If the roads are clear, they'll pick me up before church. If not, Dad'll come and get me on the streetcar."

Since there wasn't room for two on Steve's cot in the corner of his mother's room, the boys put the couch cushions on the floor of the main room and burrowed into a mess of blankets. They must have stayed up talking, but the next thing Steve remembered was waking up curled into the warmth of Bucky's back, the extra cold-induced heaviness almost gone from his lungs.

August 1930

Sand was trickling into Steve's armpit, and he clamped his arm against his side.

"Hold still," Bucky ordered, filling the crack he had just made and patting the sand smooth.

"Hey, need a hand?" Two Italian boys stood over them, water running down their legs in a dozen rivulets. One shook his head, sending drops flying from his hair. Some water caught Steve in the eye, and he blinked, the salt stinging.

"Nothin' like burying your stinkin' baby brother to make you feel good," the other said, making a wicked face.

"He's not–" Bucky started, but the shaggy-haired one was bending over Steve.

"Hey, Baby's crying."

"Hey!" Steve lunged to his feet, sand flying. He staggered a bit and got too close to one of the boys, whose fist shot into his ribs. Down Steve went.

Running with Bucky had toughened him up, sure. But he was still small and thin, and had asthma, and got sick enough that the line between his mother's eyebrows never really seemed to go away.

"I am not a baby!" he shouted, scrambling back up.

"He's the same age as me," Bucky declared, doubling up his fists.

As much as Steve hated lies he wasn't about to correct this one. He moved to stand beside Bucky, spitting into the sand like a real rowdy. "And you can just fight both of us, if that's what you want."

The shaggy-haired one stepped forward, the light of battle in his eyes, but the other caught his arm. "Smettila, Marco." Then to Bucky and Steve: "I'm sorry. We were joking. I'm Leonardo, but everyone calls me Ardo because my father is Leo. This testa calda," he gave his friend a shake, "is Davide."

Steve and Bucky glanced at each other, silently conferring, until they both relaxed.

"Bucky."

"Steve."

Ardo nodded. Davide shuffled his feet in the sand.

Bucky finally broke the awkward silence. "Want to go on some of the rides with us?" he asked, jerking his head in the direction of the amusement parks.

"Sure!" Ardo said. "Have you been on the Cyclone yet?"

"Nope."

"We'll have to get our money from my papa. How about we meet at the gates?"

"Okay," Bucky said. He turned, and led the way back up the beach to where Steve's mother was sitting on a blanket, reading.

Sarah Rogers looked up from under the brim of her straw hat. Steve suddenly noticed how pretty she was with colour in her cheeks, and her red-gold hair teased round her shoulders by the wind. He thumped down next to her, grabbing his shirt from the knapsack.

"Did I hear a fight going on?" she asked, brushing sand off his back, and ruffling his hair.

"No, ma'am," Bucky said, picking up his own shirt. "Can we have our money?" he asked, fumbling with the buttons in his haste.

Steve stayed quiet as he did up his shirt. He wasn't sure he liked the idea of riding the Cyclone. He'd been on a smaller coaster once and his stomach hadn't exactly enjoyed the ride.

His mother was fishing in her coin purse, counting out, "Two, three, four for you, Buck. And one, two… Ah, there, and four for you, laddie boy."

He held out his hand, and his eyes popped at the sight of four whole shiny quarters.

"Oh, Mam!"

His mother laughed and put one arm around his shoulders, giving him a quick hug. With her other hand she pinched his cheek gently.

"You're getting brown, laddie boy. Just go have some fun, you hear?"

"Yes'm." Steve jumped up, grabbing his shoes. "Come on, Buck."

As they trotted across the beach, winding their way between groups of bathers in the direction of the boardwalk, Steve saw the gleam in Bucky's eye.

"What'cha thinkin'?"

"Can't wait to ride the Cyclone."

"Well, I hope you have fun."

Bucky spun to face him, eyes big. "What do you mean? You don't want to?"

"More like I'm not going to."

"But you have to!"

"Nope."

"Yes, you do!"

"I don't think so."

"You will."

"Won't."

Of course he did. And of course he threw up after.

Of course Davide laughed at him, and Steve would have gladly punched Bucky's face in, if his hands would just stop shaking.

Notes:

Italian words:
Smettila: Stop it.
Testa calde: hothead
(at least according to Google translate).