Manhattan Heat

July 1931

That was a long hot summer, though not as long as some summers Steve had known. Every morning he would wake up, eat his breakfast, and head out to find Bucky sitting on the steps.

Their greeting was always the same: 'Hiya, Buck' 'Hey, Rogers' and they would grin over the little joke. They would pool their allowances and take Becca and her friend Rachel to the movies. They would load the twins—and Becca if she got tired—into Bucky's old wagon and walk to Prospect Park.

Steve watched Bucky play half a hundred games of ball, and win every one of them. They would sneak into the fight club to watch the boxers train, and sometimes Bucky could beg a short lesson in exchange for his and Steve's help filling chalk bags and rolling bandages.

After supper, they would crowd around the Barnes' kitchen table to listen to Sherlock Holmes, Rin-Tin-Tin and of course, Buck Rogers in the 25th Century. Sometimes when Amos 'n Andy came on, Bucky would switch over to the sports, trying to tease his father who loved the comedy show. The twins—Elizabeth with the straight hair, whom everyone called Lizbet, and Anna with the snub nose, who was called Annie for Little Orphan Annie—would jump on him and tickle him until he fell over and Mrs. Barnes could turn the dial back.

Once or twice Steve thought he saw the man smile, but it was there and gone. He remembered sitting on the man's knee with Bucky, listening to Jack Dempsey's final fight against Tunney and wondered why things had to change.

August 1931

Steve fingered the three nickels in his pocket; enough for a Coke each, and maybe an ice cream on the side. That would feel great on a day like this. He pulled his damp shirt away from his stomach and flapped it, trying to cool himself a bit. Manhattan was an oven.

Bucky scuffed his shoes on the sidewalk, and Steve glanced at him. He was supposed to be in charge of this adventure. Each boy had a couple sandwiches, from Mrs. Barnes, but she didn't exactly know they had been planning to cross the bridge.

"Getting hungry?" Bucky asked suddenly.

"Sure!" Steve had already heard a clock strike the quarter-after.

"'Kay. Let's find a place to get a drink."

They hung a right at the next corner, and passed some apple sellers. Steve always tried to smile at them, like his mother did, instead of just ignoring them. Only the last one actually glanced at him and Steve saw the corners of his mouth start to go up, before the man froze. Bucky stopped dead and Steve walked right into his back.

"Bucky!" Mr. Barnes blurted, involuntarily reaching for his son, and almost knocking over his apple display.

Buck made an odd strangled sound, before he put his head down and fled. "Bucky!" Steve yelled, and bolted after him.

His friend was running blind, knocking into people, paying no heed to cars as he flew across one street and then another. "Buck!" Steve gasped, almost no breath left.

The crowds thinned as the buildings turned to apartments and smaller shops and Steve slowed in a sudden panic: Bucky had disappeared. He staggered, fighting for air, tried to catch himself and tumbled into an alley. He sat up, and felt the tightening in his chest, like an iron hand squeezing the oxygen out of his lungs. No. oh, no.

He couldn't, could not breathe. His hand clutched his chest convulsively, wild desperation seizing him. In some detached part of his mind he knew his panic was not helping, that he needed to calm down. But he'd never had to deal with an asthma attack alone, especially not one this bad.

Hands gripped his shoulders, someone was calling his name.

"Steve! Oh, God, please! Stevie, listen to me. You need to breathe. Yes, you can," Bucky answered his unspoken question. "Here." He grabbed one of Steve's hands and pressed it to his own chest. "Follow my breathing."

Bucky was almost as breathless as Steve, but gradually his breathing slowed and bit by bit Steve was able to take one breath and then another.

Finally he looked up at Bucky, and went still. "Buck?"

Tears trailed down his flushed cheeks, and as Steve said his name, he seemed to crumple. Slumped against the alley wall, he buried his face in his hands. Steve didn't ask any questions, he just slid over and put his arm around his friend's shoulders. The shock and humiliation of seeing his father, a respected businessman selling apples in the street like a- a beggar, broke through all Buck's defences. He cried and Steve held on.

When the tears finally slowed into hiccups and sniffles, Bucky muttered, "You tell anyone about this, I'll give ya the business."

Steve managed a laugh. "I'll take it to my grave."

They heard footsteps and glanced up.

Five boys were silhouetted against the sunshine at the entrance to the alley. "What the heck?" one said.

"Trespassers!" cried another.

"Get 'em!"

Bucky sprang to his feet in front of Steve, bracing to protect his friend.

The first boy rushed him. Bucky's fist met his jaw squarely. Felled him like a tree.

The next two tackled Bucky together, driving him back against the wall.

Crouching low, trying not to attract attention, Steve scuttled out of the way.

He saw the last two getting ready to pile on, and dove for their legs. They toppled and Steve rolled, escaping the tangle of bodies.

He popped to his feet about to jump on them, and beat the tar out of them, when he heard Bucky yell, "Get outta here, Steve! Just go!"

"No!" He landed a solid jab to the one boy's solar plexus. "Not without you!"

A vicious hook smashed into his cheek and he reeled.

He took another punch.

And another.

Stars. Blood. Sweat. Pain.

He kicked out blindly, caught his assailant in a soft spot.

Steve could feel the right side of his face swelling already, but he caught a glimpse of Bucky, back to the wall, holding his own.

Again someone loomed over him.

This time a boot smashed down on his left hand, driving, twisting, grinding.

The pain seared through him.

He screamed.

Screamed again.

He arched his back, trying to pull his hand away, the bones– His hand– God help him. What would his mother say?

The crushing force vanished. Bodies crashed down on him, driving the air out of his lungs.

Somewhere he could hear Bucky's voice. Then a man shouting.

And then the thrashing and grunting and struggle were gone, and he was limp and gasping, like a truck had run over him.

"Steve!" Bucky leaned over him. "You dummy, I told you to go!"

"I'm. Fine," Steve managed, sitting up slowly. He was somewhat surprised he hadn't broken all the bones in his body. Gingerly he cradled his hand against his stomach.

"Wait. Let me see that," a man's voice ordered.

Startled, Steve looked up at Mr. Barnes. The man smiled thinly, his eyes a storm of emotions. "I thought Buck was going to kill that d– darn kid standing on you. Good thing I found you boys when I did."

Steve saw Bucky glance sideways at his father, as if unsure how to respond.

"We should get some ice on that hand, and on your face," Mr. Barnes said. He made as if to pick Steve up, but Steve held out his uninjured hand to Bucky, who pulled him up easily, then steadied him when he wavered.

Sitting at the back of an ice cream shop, a cold, wet cloth around his hand, which Mr. Barnes was pretty sure was not broken, but they would stop at the hospital just to be sure, and another on his eye, Steve watched Bucky stare into his dish of melting chocolate.

"Are you gonna eat that?" he finally asked. He'd already finished his three scoops of vanilla.

"Yeah." Bucky shoved a spoonful into his mouth and swallowed, with no relish at all. Finally he leaned close enough that his father couldn't hear. "You should have run, stupid."

Steve frowned. "I couldn't just leave you. Five on two is better than five on one." He dropped his gaze to the floor. "Even if I ain't much good."

"Long as you keep at it, they have to quit at some point."

Steve glanced up, fighting a smile. "Which means no running."

Bucky blinked, and then he was laughing. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess it does."

Notes:

Or should this chapter be called 'Not Without You'?
It's funny how characters can take a story down streets I didn't know were there. I heard Bucky yell and Steve's reply and I was like, 'Wait, didn't they say that in the movies?! Except that was the other way around.' And I just started laughing because it was 'right'. Just 'right'.
I have to say it again: I love those boys!

Historical note:
Apple growers in the Northwest US had a bumper crop in 1930. Someone had the idea of selling the excess (on credit) to poor unemployed men, for them to sell. There were six thousand of these little fruit stands in New York alone. In 1931 they were declared a nuisance by the city and removed by the end of the year. For most of these proud working men, it was akin to begging, but they would do anything to feed their families.