Red Liquorice and Paintings | Stucky

Chapter 1

Steve Rogers blearily glares up in what he expects is the direction of his attackers, blurred from his lack of glasses and the haze of pain that's been clouding his vision since he received the first kick to the shins.

He gropes blindly at the grass around him, searching desperately for his glasses that were knocked off of his nose when he was struck across the face only a few seconds ago. This elicits cruel laughter from Brock Rumlow and his two friends, Zola and Sitwell.

As of recently, Steve became the new target for the three of them to attack throughout the day; from the second they spot him at the start of school to until Steve can escape through the front gates after the bell rings. He usually finds himself curled up in the corner of the library during break hours, knowing that the librarian, Mrs Dot, won't allow Rumlow and his posse into the library at all after the incident last year.

All things considered, Steve wasn't at all surprised the first time Rumlow started throwing insults at him. Logically, Steve was the perfect target; small, weak, friendless... but Rumlow definitely wasn't expecting Steve to fight back so savagely, as Steve claws and kicks and ultimately ends up a little worse for wear but still clutching his pride to his chest. However small his pride may be.

The tips of Steve's fingers only just manage to touch the familiar of frame of his glasses before his hand is kicked away. Steve sees someone's blurred fingers wrap around his glasses out of the corner of his eye, and pluck them out of sight.

"Hope you ain't needing these, Rogers," Rumlow sneers, sounding amused with himself, "'cause you're not gonna be getting them back." Sitwell and Zola huff out laughs, as the two of them obediently remain standing at Rumlow's shoulders.

"Give them back, Rumlow." Steve mutters, anger flickering at the edges of his voice. He grabs at the fabric of Rumlow's pants, trying blindly pull himself to his feet.

Rumlow kicks him down onto his back with a hard thump that vibrates painfully through Steve's head. He then barks a laugh which is followed by Zola and Sitwell's chortles, stirring around through Steve's head.

"You're so easy, Rogers," Rumlow tells him, his voice sounding darkly amused, "it's kinda sad, really."

Steve growls angrily, ready to tear at Rumlow. He tries to rise up to his his feet when a firm, black boot plants itself right in the centre of his chest, pushing him down onto his back and holding him there.

While his ribs may feel as if they're creaking painfully beneath Rumlow's boot, Steve still struggles angrily, trying to tear his foot away.

"You're real pathetic, kid, y'know that right?" Rumlow's harsh words are accompanied by two snorts of agreement, and Steve heaves in a few ragged breaths.

His lungs feel like they're failing greatly, as Steve's breathing begins to thin out and he tries sucking in more air.

Steve desperately taps against Rumlow's foot, trying to make him move so that Steve can breathe, but Rumlow refuses to take his foot away.

"What's wrong, can't breathe?" Rumlow sneers, sounding sick with delight. Steve can only stare up at Rumlow through his bad vision, his eyes welling with tears and hazy with pain. He idly hears a shout, before Rumlow turns abruptly to face someone. In moments, a fist strikes Rumlow's face and he's sent backwards.

Steve gasps in deep lungfuls of air and curls his fingers firmly into his shirt, trying to steady himself. Though a sudden wave of dizziness tries to protest, Steve settles himself upright. Slowly, his fuddled head begins to regain clarity, and he becomes aware of the hand that is firmly planted on his back, and the warm body that is pressed beside him.

Glasses are unceremoniously shoved onto his face, and Steve splutters out a few unintelligible words. Steve wearily looks up to see the backs of Rumlow's gang swaggering back to the school, turning often to glare over their shoulders.

Idiots, Steve thinks idly.

"Are you okay, Steve?" A familiar voice demands from his side, laced with concern. Steve glances to his right and meets Peggy Carter's warm chocolate eyes, sat atop of cheeks that are a rosy red from the chill air. A blue, fuzzy scarf is wrapped firmly around her neck, and is swaying gently in the breeze.

"Yeah, Peggy... I'm fine." Steve tells her, trying to sound truthful as he smiles crookedly at her. Peggy huffs out an unimpressed breath, her eyes searching Steve's face for a moment before she begins gathering up some of Steve's books and stationary.

His bag, Steve realises, lays a few meters away, and the contents of it are scattered all over the ground.

Rumlow grabbed that from him first, and tossed it to Zola and Sitwell to do whatever they pleased with it. Steve remembers the sound of paper tearing, and remembers watching his homework, notes, and artwork fly away with the breeze.

His leather sketchbook suffered the worst of it, and lays beaten and torn at his left side. The whole front cover has been tainted by shoe prints and mud, and Steve grimaces as he reaches for it, hesitant to pick it up and evaluate the worst of the damage. He begins to flick through it, in hopes of finding it untouched, and feels his heart drop when he sees the mud-sodden pages which have ruined his drawings.

Before the unwanted tears can begin to prickle at his eyes, Steve hastily snaps it shut and tucks it back into his green, over-sized woollen coat which hung down below his knees and looked about four sizes too big.

"You'll get pneumonia, Steven, it's cold outside. Take the coat." His mother had insisted, so Steve, fearing both another bout of pneumonia and the wrath of his mother if he refused to wear it, took the coat.

Besides the fact that Steve swam in it, it wasn't a bad coat. It was his father's favourite, and used to wear constantly. And when his mother decided that she couldn't face selling it, kindly passed down to him.

No, it wasn't a bad coat at all, and that and the sketchbook were some of the only things he has left of his late father, and Steve can't face losing either of them.

The sketchbook which belonged to Steve's grandfather was taken right to the front lines of the Second World War, and holds so many stories inside. Steve was left speechless when he unwrapped in on the morning of his tenth birthday. He remembers flicking to the first page and being left mesmerised at the first of many detailed drawings.

A man, crouched between some trees with his rifle in his hand and a smirk on his face.

The level of detail had Steve feeling as if he were there, crouched beside this man, his comrade, ready to fight the enemy. This feeling sprouted Steve's unrealistic dream to join the army, to fight and serve to protect his country.

However, Steve can't help but feel that that dream is dying with his sketchbook, a sketchbook that Steve adored and is now ruined, tucked into the pocket of his father's coat.

"One day, boy," His aunt had said to him once, and had leaned so close to him that they breathed in the same air, jabbed a wrinkled finger right between his eyes, "That flapping mouth of yours is gonna cause you a lot of grief."

Thank you Aunt Mary, Steve thinks to himself, for the kind words in advance.

"Come on, Steve, let's go." Peggy says kindly, after Steve grudgingly drags himself to his feet. She hands him is bag, which he swings over his shoulder, and puts the sketchbook and the pain to the back of his mind, focussing on his friend instead.

"Yeah, okay," Steve murmurs, and walks with Peggy to the front entrance, listening to her chat about the trip she'll be leaving for in a week, and about her grades and her parents.