A Guide To Love: Stucky One Shots

UNDER THE STARS

A/N: The story is a work of extreme fiction with no possible way to be canon. It's far fetched and incorrect but it was fun to write. I hope you guys have fun reading it and don't come bashing me for some (many) literary liberties.

PAIRING: Pre serum Stucky.

WARNINGS: Homophobia, homophobic slurs, cross dressing, mention of blood, wounds, injuries, violence, mention of death of a background character.

The pitter patter of raindrops is constant and lingering, their presence on his skin a tad bit annoying. It’s been showering for the past hour or so, but it’s only gotten worse in the fifteen minutes he’s been a victim of its assault. He pulls his tattered coat closer to his frail body, tries unsuccessfully to keep the biting cold off his pale skin and to keep the water away from his lungs, but the harm has already been done. He can feel goose bumps rising along his body, a cough trapped in his lungs and a cold tingling his nose. He can feel the oncoming bout of fever and taste the disgusting medicine at the back of his tongue. He knows his immunity is just another joke the world played on him, and it hurts every time he’s reminded of that. Every time his chest rattles under the chilling water of the monsoon rain and his lungs work extra hard to draw some resemblance of air into them, he thinks about what he’d have given to be like everybody else. What he’d do to be a little taller, a bit more muscular and a tad bit healthier.

He frowns a bit at that thought and shakes his head. there’s no need to open that can of worms. Instead he focuses on keeping the rain out of his eyes and off his hair. He thinks about getting home and sinking into their ratty couch, soaking in the feeble warmth of their apartment. Hot cocoa is a farfetched dream, but maybe he can make do with a hot glass of water and pretend it’s hot chocolate. Cuddle up to Bucky under a worn blanket and have the illusion of shared heat; considering he has no heat to share. But it’s all in his head and these thoughts are only safe in his head. Thoughts about Bucky, the life they lead behind the closed door and bolted windows of their apartment is a beautiful secret in a dirty safe. He tries not to think about that too. In a different world, maybe even a time, they’d to be able to do it without fear, without shame, without the looming threat of imprisonment and isolation. Maybe in a different, better world he’d have been able to be himself without the threat of death itself.

He's almost at the curb of their dilapidated apartment building when he hears it. It’s not a sound uncommon in the poorer neighbourhoods around them but it still makes Steve’s blood run cold and his temper flare hot. It’s a plea for help, a plea to be saved and Steve’s never been very good at ignoring them. Despite the loud prattling of raindrops on the concrete ground and Steve's poor hearing, he still hears it, a wounded huff of breath, and it makes his heart thud uncomfortably. It's a call for mercy, a heart wrenching sob that resounds from the alley a little farther away and into Steve's heart. A little breathless, very much desperate and so very pained. And he cannot help his immediate need to make it stop, to answer it, to save it.
As he pauses to hear it, the sobs seem to amplify. Instead of one voice, he hears two, anxious and hurt, whimpering and moaning. His heart clenches in his chest at the voices and he fists his palms instinctively. He's not going to stand here and let some goons beat up people, the rain, cold and his own shuddering breath be damned.

With purpose in his eyes and gait, he runs into the garbage strewn alley, the rain seeming to have given way to his righteous anger. He stands at the end of the alleyway and looks in.

There are three men, big, burly, ugly and in their early forties, beating up a couple of men around the same age as Steve himself. The men on the ground look like death itself: broken, bruised and bloodied as hell but they still kept pleading. They plead for mercy, for compassion, a little reprieve, but the men are merciless, kicking them over and over again and spitting on them every time they try to help themselves up. Steve closed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. His fists clenched and his eyes watered a bit as his gut clenched at the sight. 

He could never understand how man could be so cruel, so ruthless in the treatment of his fellow men. How he could become an animal in a split second and bring pain hurt to others but still manage to walk upright with his head held high. He could never understand how he demanded respect from all around him when he himself never gave respect to anyone. He couldn’t grasp how he could act all sanctimonious on Sunday morning and become sacrilegious by Sunday evening.  He couldn’t understand their need to pick on the poor, the weak and women to establish their masculinity, their power or how it factored whatsoever in their definition of manhood.

But he was not one of them, had never been and wasn’t going to be. He was not going to participate in it but neither was he going to stand here and let them be animals. There was no way he could take on all of them at the same time, but god forbid he not try. He'll definitely try, and he'll definitely fail but it may save someone's life and that's all that matters.

All that should matter. He squares his shoulders and raises his hands to his face, fists clenched hard and knuckles white, ready to throw a punch or a dozen.

"Disgusting fags." One of the men remarks and spits at one of the men at his feet. He kicks the man in the jaw and he whimpers in pain, his body broken enough to not move more than inch, even if it meant moving away from his tormentor.
And he was not the only one who stopped moving, Steve did too. He froze on the spot, his palms unfurling and dropping down to his sides. His mouth fell open and his eyes filled with tears. He felt like he couldn't move an inch anymore, like the blows had been received by his own body and not that of two strangers. He felt the need to cry and run, like the taunts and abuses were hurled at him and not at the two strangers. He felt dirty and ashamed, like he was the one being spat on, not the two strangers.

Because Steve was no different from the men on the garbage floor. This fight was no longer about the two men, it wasn't about Steve either, this fight had become much bigger than them. This fight was for all of them. it was for all the people who got beat up in alleys and sidewalks, it was for all the people who got arrested and punished, it was all the people who are ashamed of themselves, who are ashamed to love whom they please and are not given an opportunity to be themselves. It’s for those people who are beaten into shape to conform to society’s heteronormative rules.
And so, Steve took a deep breath, blinked away his tears and clenched his fists. He shook the water out of his hair and wiped away stray water drops off his face. He pulled his fists up in front of his face and charged into the alley.

"Stay the fuck away from them, you assholes! Or I'll make you."