the tables have turned | steve/bucky

prologue

"Death is our friend, precisely because it brings us into absolute and passionate presence with all that is here, that is natural, that is love."
― Rainer Marie Rilke

— ✪ —

If you asked me, Captain America, who the most incredible man I know is, I wouldn't hesitate to answer. Out of all the men I've met in my unusually extended life, out of the war heroes and space gods, I would only categorize one as incredible.

-

My name is Steven Grant Rogers. I was born in the heart of summer during the teen years of the 1900's, just when America was learning to grow up. The house I was raised in was nothing nice, hell, it was falling apart, but it was the best my parents could do. I was thankful that we had a home; during those times, more people lived on the streets than under roofs.

My father died when I was young, leaving me and my mother alone to fend for ourselves. After his passing, my mother took up a job at sewing facility to support us. Though she made little money, she kept me fed well, even if most nights she went to sleep on an empty stomach.

Since I was a sickly child, I spent most of my time at home, drawing or wishing I could run around and play with the other kids on my block. Due to my severe asthma, I could never participate in games or races. I usually just watched from my bedroom window as the kids played out on the street.   The children in my neighborhood thought I was weird because I'd never come outside and I missed school a lot. They nicknamed me 'Sick and Skinny Steve' because of it.

There's no ring to it, I know. But we were kids living in the ghetto and most kids living in the ghetto aren't too bright.

At some point during my childhood my mother became ill and stopped going to work. Because of this, I took up a job as a paperboy. I struggled every day on my route, but I had to make the money for her medication.

One day, as I glided along Taylor Street on my beat-up red bike, I tossed a newspaper into the front yard of the house with the nicest grass on the block. That was the first time the paper was thrown back at me.

For the next two weeks, I rode along Taylor Street with a grin, knowing that as soon as that heap of paper hit the glorious grass of the second house on the left, it'd come shooting from the bushes and land right in front of me. Soft laughter would follow soon after, like always.

The laughing is what kept me coming back. I felt like-for the first time in my life-I had a friend. Even though I never saw this person or knew their name or how old they were, I felt a sense of companionship.

After work I'd go home with the strangest feeling in my chest. It wasn't a tightness, nor was it an ache. It felt good. Really good.

I think I was happy.

On a sunny Tuesday in July, two days before my birthday, I rolled down Taylor Street happily, knowing that as soon as I reached the second house on the left, my friend would be there. But that day was different.

When I tossed the paper into the gleaming grass, it just sat there. It didn't fly into the street, it didn't blast out of the bushes and hit me in the arm. It just sat in the grass, still as ever. I waited in front of the house for a good ten minutes for my invisible friend to show, but he never did.

I went home that night consumed in disappointment. My mother was finally well enough to get up and make me dinner, but I pardoned myself and insisted that she ate instead. Her cheeks lost their usual pink flare and her eyes were sunken in. She looked like she was dying.