Run (A Bucky Barnes Recovery Story)

55

Steve was a fighter before he was a defender. He uses a shield now, and he protects those who can’t protect themselves, but it wasn’t always like that. Steve learned how to defend and he learned it from Bucky, even if Bucky was only slowly learning it himself.

Steve was eight, and he was little and outspoken and he liked to draw and these things made him stand out as an easy target. He got pummelled almost everyday after school by the bigger boys, who liked to stomp on his drawings and call him mean names. Steve was graceful about it, however, especially for a little boy. He didn’t yell or cry, which frustrated the bullies further. Steve stood there and he took it like a champ. He gave the bullies a level eye, like he’d learned from his uncle, and raised his fists and let them all come.

Steve didn’t know what was different one day, but there were more kids in that alley behind the school, and more jeering shouts. Steve felt his fear intensify--intensify, yes, because it most certainly was there to begin with. It had always been there, but he was smart enough not to show it and brave enough not to act on it. He didn’t know how he was going to come out of this fight. Certainly not well, he never came out well, but Steve Rogers was entirely too aware of the ease at which he could be killed, by any given thing, and a large group of frustrated third grade boys suddenly proved a big enough threat. He didn’t want to lose his life here, but he knew at least it wouldn’t be for nothing. He was fighting for his own honor. It was better, at least, than dying on a sickbed. Anything was better than that.

So again, Steve ground his teeth and raised his fists.

“I could do this all day,” he told the kids. “Try me.” He was rewarded with a hard punch to the jaw and he thought he felt something inside crack. Was it a tooth? As Steve fell, kicks began to find their way to him, hard and painful and he scooted away and tried to pull himself to his feet, until the kicks stopped and a shadow fell over Steve.

“Why don’t you pick on someone your own size, ya bastards?” The voice said. “I’ll take you all on, ya finks, you jerks, ya twits, I can-” Steve looked up and watched the boy get socked in the middle of his heroic insult-slinging. The boy didn’t even stop to register the hit. He grabbed the other kid by his collar with one hand and drew back with the other and-BAM. The boy stumbled back, holding his mouth and groaning. Steve scrambled to his feet and the crowd of kids in front of them were still, stunned. The boy standing in front of Steve was blowing on his fist cockily, like a smoking gun in the movies. “You wanna end up like Petey, here?” The boy asked, pointing over at the hit bully, who was crying and sniffing now.

“You knocked a tooth!” Pete cried. “I’m gonna tell my ma!”

“What’s she gonna do?” The boy replied and laughed. “She gon’ come beat me up? I’ll sock your mom one, too!”

Because mothers are not to be insulted, the kid received a hail of fists from various sources around him now, but he dodged them all and threw up his own fists in defense.

“Look,” the boy said. “This shrimp behind me can’t put up a decent fight to save his life. You all get off no worse for wear, amiright?”

“I can too fight,” Steve tried to reply, but the boy shushed him over his shoulder.

“Shut up, I’m saving your dumb life,” he replied. Then, back to the crowd of bullies, he continued. “You can hit him all day! But you can’t hit me cause we’ll both come out with some bruises, and I promise you’ll have more than me. You should go find some other second grader to beat up ‘cause I’m not letting you beat up this one.” This dose of logic seemed to make sense to the collection of bullies, because after this, despite the fact that the kid hadn’t really done much besides hit a tooth out of Pete MacGregor’s mouth, the bullies scattered. When the alley was finally clear, even of the crying Pete, the boy turned to Steve with a wide, charming grin. “You’re welcome,” he said.

“I didn’t ask for you help,” Steve said spitefully. He was sort of embarrassed now. He had to have a third grader fight his fights for him. He could have done it himself. And even if he couldn’t have, he would rather have been given more bruises. At least he’d done it all himself. The boy frowned at him.

“Yeah, well, they were gonna split you open,” he replied.

“I was managing,” Steve argued.

“No, you were not!” the boy said back angrily. “And you should be thankful that I was here.”

“I don’t need no third grader doing my fights for me,” Steve said.

“I think you do.” The boy held out a hand for shaking. “What’s your name?”

“Do not. And it’s Steve,” Steve said and shook his hand, firmly like his uncle taught him. “What’s yours?” The boy made a face.

“If I tell you, will you not tell anyone else?” He asked.

“On my honor,” Steve said.

“James Buchanan Barnes,” the boy whispered. Then, loudly, he continued. “But everyone calls me Bucky and if you know what’s good for you, you will, too.”

“That’s not a bad name,” Steve said.

“Yeah, it is,” Bucky replied. “Try livin’ with it.”

“Well,” Steve said, beginning to gather his things up off the ground. “I have to get home. Bye Bucky,” he said and began to leave.

“Hey, wait,” Bucky cried and Steve stopped to let Bucky catch up with him, although he was certain that he needn’t have. Bucky could have caught up to him anyway. “You should stay with me,” Bucky said.

“Why?” Steve asked. “So you can fight all my fights?”

“Someone’s gotta do it,” Bucky replied and began walking with him. “You can’t.” Steve glared over at him.

“I can, too,” he said back defiantly and Bucky looked at him angrily.

“Why won’t you just admit that you can’t fight?” He cried. “Just say ‘gee, thanks for savin’ my life, Buck, wouldn’t have made it without you’!”

“Cause I would have!” Steve yelled. “I do it all the time and I don’t even know who you are, so stop trying to help me!” Bucky glared at him angrily. They had stopped now, in the street, and had turned to each other, both staring angrily.

“Would not have,” Bucky said tauntingly and Steve let out a roar and dropped his books and jumped Bucky. They tumbled to the ground and Steve sat on Bucky’s chest and hit him. He landed at least two good punches in Bucky’s face until Bucky grabbed his arms with a grip stronger than Steve had suspected and threw him off. Steve practically flew through the air, but Bucky grabbed him and threw him down, pinning him to the ground and beating into his face with a ferocity. When Bucky finally stopped and stood himself up, dusting off his clothes spitefully, Steve rolled over on the ground, groaning. His whole face was pulsing and he could feel blood. “You should have, uh,” Bucky said, almost apologetically. “You should have squared your feet better. And then you went too slow, you can’t let me grab you.” Steve groaned again in response. Bucky reached down and grabbed Steve’s hands and hauled him to his feet. “You okay?” He asked. He was definitely apologetic now. Steve made a face at him, then nodded.

“I’m fine,” he said. Bucky threw his arm around Steve and tried to make it all look like nothing, which Steve appreciated as much as Bucky did. He was humiliated. He had been beaten twice in one day.

“What’re you having for dinner tonight?” Bucky asked, which was a weird question.

“I dunno,” Steve replied.

“Well, my mom makes the best spaghetti, so you should come over and eat some with us,” Bucky said. As an apology, Steve realized.

“Okay,” he said, frowning. “But you’re a real jerk.” Bucky just laughed.

“And you’re a punk,” he said. “I guess we fit together.”