Bucky walks out of the alley, leaning heavily on Steve. Usually it would be the other way around, but today, when Bucky had waded in to help Steve, they had left the blonde boy and started on Bucky, despite the other boy's desperate taunts and occasional punches to goad the bigger boys into leaving Bucky alone.
"Godamnit it Stevie." he muttered, wiping away a trail of blood that trickled from his lip.
"I didn't ask you to help." he joked, but he knew Bucky would never not help Steve. "Anyway I had-"
"Them on the ropes. I know, punk. I know."
Bucky turned his head away from Steve and spat out a wad of blood and spit.
When they were back at Steve's house, Steve found a old T-shirt of his, to replace the bloodied and dirtied rag he had on.
(that was when they were still roughly the same size, before Bucky shot up and Steve seemed to shrink)
"Thanks." Steve said, later when they were sprawled over his bed, biscuit crumbs still on their shirts, blood carefully wiped away. The gramophone was crooning in the corner, Bucky closing his eyes to listen to his favourite songs.
Bucky opened one eyes to smirk at Steve sideways.
"Anytime punk."