I want to dedicate this chapter to Grandpa and to the memory of my Grandma, both of whom lived those days (even if it was in small town farming Canada).

Hard Times

February 1935

Steve had his homework spread out on the kitchen table, hard on his math problems, when someone knocked at the door. He glanced up, waiting. His mother was working later tonight—the hospital was short-staffed—so that was probably Bucky.

Sure enough his friend came in, brushing snowflakes from his shoulders.

"Hey," Steve said, getting up and coming to take his coat.

"Steve." Bucky seemed in a hurry. "You're wanted on the phone at our place. Urgent. It's your mother."

In a moment he was shoving his feet into those big winter boots that had been his father's, running clumsily through the snow beside Bucky to the next-door building, forgetting even a coat.

Aunt Winnie was in the front hall, waiting for them. She had an odd look on her face.

Steve never could remember what followed, until he was sitting in the kitchen with Bucky beside him, and Aunt Winnie holding his hand, looking him in the eye.

"Your mother can't come home tonight. The doctors say she's sick."

"Tuberculosis?" Steve asked, the question automatic. Something he'd once asked his mother: "But what if you catch it?"

"If I caught TB, I'd beat it over the head with a club." Then the look she got when thinking about her patients, some of them just kids.

"Yes, dear. I'm afraid so."

He thought he heard Bucky gasp, but he remembered that he hadn't finished his homework. His mother wouldn't be happy about that. He got up. "Need to finish my homework," he said, and wandered out of the room.

He was pulling on his boots, when he heard Bucky ask, "Need some help with that physics paper?"

"Sure," he answered, but the word tasted funny.

They ate cold sandwiches at the Rogers' kitchen table, the two of them briefly engaging in the age-old mayo vs. mustard debate.

"Yellow's for cowards," Bucky said.

"What about white with fear?" Steve countered.

But the façade broke down, when Steve went to get ready for bed. He went into the bedroom, stared for a long moment at his mother's big bed, before walking over and lying down. He pressed his face into the pillow, catching the scent of her: disinfectant, flowers, food.

The fear rose in him. He shoved it back. "…I'd beat it over the head with a club."

Beat it for good, Mam, he wanted to say. Beat it for all those kids and folks at the hospital.

He woke with a start, in the darkness. Someone slept behind him, someone strong and warm who had an arm draped protectively over him. Steve closed his eyes again and let himself imagine they were on the living room floor and his mother was asleep in the next room.

May 1936

Steve eased the door shut behind him, and sighed. Bucky was sitting on the steps and Steve passed him his mug of coffee without a word, before slipping back inside for another.

His mother would give him a hiding if she knew—she probably did know—but it was one of the only things that got him going at this un-earthly hour of the morning. And Bucky had a nose like a bloodhound for the stuff.

At least she was home, though she slept enough to scare her son. And that cough made him shudder. The doctors had declared her 'well' months ago. But lately…

Steve gave his head a sharp shake, and leaned on the railing, breathing in the steam from his drink.

Bucky drained the last drops from his mug, sighed, and stretched. "Better finish up, pal. Remember we got two extra streets this morning."

They rinsed their mugs at the sink and headed back out into the morning chill. Steve never understood why Bucky drank coffee, he had enough energy without it. Steve hated getting up this early, but once he was outside, focussed on the job, it wasn't so bad.

The work was something to be proud of too, delivery boys, not simple newsies on a street corner. The boys would work opposite sides of each street, whoever finished first coming across to help the other. Steve took the right, Bucky took the left, set in stone. Without the actual stone.

They were on the tenth street, Bucky well behind him since Steve only had three on this block, the last three, when he stopped suddenly and cocked his head.

A faint whimper.

He turned. An alley cut between two houses, still in shadow. He stepped closer, squinting, gripping the strap of his paper bag.

Again there came a little sound, like a terrified animal. Steve frowned and stepped into the alley.

An arm wrapped around his neck, a hand covered his mouth, and he was thrown to the ground. Someone sat on his back, driving most of the breath out of him.

"Give me what you got," a hoarse voice demanded.

"Got nothin'," Steve gasped.

The man, or young man—he wasn't very big—swore several times. "Come on, kid, you gotta gimme something."

"What for?"

A hand slammed the back of his head, cracking his chin against the paving stones. He tasted blood.

"Nuff o'that, punk. I'll shake it outta you then." There was something almost familiar about the voice, Steve realized, and he tried to twist around to see his assailant's face. Then he heard two quick steps and the boy on him gasped as someone rammed him.

A hand on his shoulder hauled Steve to his feet. "Come on," Bucky said. He gestured to his own chin. "Aunt Sarah's not going to be happy about that cut." He glanced past Steve and frowned.

"Hey."

Steve turned to see his would-be mugger staring at them.

The boy barked a laugh. "Should have known. If it isn't Buck and his little pal. Just my luck."

"Gus?" Bucky said, wondering. "Gus Tracey." He stepped forward, putting his hand out, happy to greet an old friend. The two of them had been training partners at the fight club since high-school started, until last fall when Gus's family had moved. Steve could only imagine how he'd ended up on the streets.

Gus's hands stayed at his sides, curling into fists. He swore at Bucky.

There was an awkward frozen moment, before Gus rushed Bucky, and Steve saw him go down, too shocked to take in the situation.

Steve dropped his bag and dove on top of Gus. He got a hold on his right wrist with both hands, and Gus rolled, squashing Steve heavily.

Steve got a glimpse of Bucky, springing to his feet, before a fist slammed his cheek. He saw stars. Dang, he'd forgotten Gus was a lefty.

Another punch, before he heard Bucky yell and tackle Gus.

From the eye that was not beginning to swell, Steve saw the two of them stand, facing each other like they had so many times in the ring.

"You don't have to do this," Bucky said, his voice gentle, almost pleading.

Gus did not answer, except to rush Bucky again. This time Buck was ready.

Steve sat up, putting a hand to his face. Yeah, his mother would not be happy.

He scrambled back against the wall and crouched there, feeling oddly detached from the fight. If Buck needed his help, he'd give it, but this was really between Gus and him.

This was clearly no simple boxing match. Gus was out for blood and Steve had a hard time staying still. Both were too good for this to end with a single punch and the dance seemed to go on and on. Dodge, swing, dodge, swing, maybe land half of it, dodge, swing.

Finally Gus tripped Buck and they went down, wrestling now, rolling over, first one on top and then the other.

"Good heavens, what is going on out there?" someone shouted, and Steve looked up to see a woman peering out an upstairs window overlooking the alley.

He opened his mouth, and Bucky screamed. Well, not exactly screamed, more like yelped, but that was a lot for him.

Steve jerked his gaze back to the fight, to see Gus starting to rise to his feet, before Buck, still lying on the ground, twisted and kicked out one foot. Nailed him right between the legs.

Gus doubled over, almost collapsing, and Steve scrambled to his feet, wincing at the pain in his face and head.

"You boys just wait!" shouted the woman. "Donny?" she called to someone inside. "Get out there and break up a fight."

With a great effort, Gus pulled himself together, and hobbled off down the alley. Steve knelt by Bucky's side, more worried about his friend than anything.

Buck's eyes were closed, his face gone pale. "Think he broke my arm," he murmured, trying not to move even his lips. "Heard something pop. Hurts like the devil."

He opened his eyes and stared at Steve. "I didn't want to hurt him."

"I know," Steve said softly. He pulled off his jacket.

"Left," Buck said, slowly sitting up.

"We gotta get out of here," Steve whispered.

Bucky nodded, lips pressed in a thin line.

Without another word, they fashioned a sling for the injured arm, and Steve pulled his friend up. He collected their paper bags, slinging one over each shoulder.

Of course the moment they stepped into the street, the front door of the one house flew open and a burly red-faced man came charging out. "Alright," he demanded. "What are you boys doin', raising Cain and waking people at this hour?"

He stopped, staring at the boys, who stared back. Some of his bluster faded. "You hurt?" he asked, nodding at Bucky.

"Probably broke his arm, sir," Steve said quietly. He ignored Bucky's glare. "Fella jumped me in the alley, and he… helped me out."

He turned to whisper in Bucky's ear. "Let him take you to the hospital. I'll finish the papers. Only two streets, plus the extra. I'll be fine." He gestured to his face, and made a painful attempt at a smile. "Long as I don't run into any cops."

"Just tell 'em you met Jack Dempsey in an alley," Bucky answered, but there was no joking twinkle in his eye. Only that pained twist to his lips.

Steve squeezed his good arm, in silent understanding.