Steve Rogers/Captain America One Shots

Just a Kid from Brooklyn

You heard as the front door swung shut, softly clasped as though who ever had stepped into the house, was trying their best to conceal the sound of the door sealing with the doorframe. But even with caution, there was a slight creak in the hinges, that alerted anyone who was home that someone had entered. 

Reaching for the dry towel sitting in a loose pile on the counter beside your arm, you dry your soapy hands in the soft rag. The soapy residue from the dishes disappearing into the light cotton, as your feet carry you through the small kitchen and into the front room. The setting sun streamed in through the linin curtain in thick rays of warm light, and it bathed the comfortable room in a orangish hue that brightens even the darkest corners of the walls. 

You paused silently in the doorway, feeling the wooden frame press softly against your back as you leaned backwards slightly. Your hands stopped their motions to clean any trace of soap from your fingers as your eyes caught a glimpse of the person who had entered. You knew who it was the second the door opened, there weren't many possibilities other than this one. And yet, as you eyes landed across his pale and subtly handsome face, a sting of sadness tugged at your heart. 

He avoided you on days like these; an explanation for the near silent entrance at the front door. When your eyes found him, his head would always turn away in an attempt to conceal his face from your awaiting gaze. He would shield his body from your wandering and concerned eyes, and he didn't say a word as he arrived back home. He simply limped up those steps and hid away in his bedroom until the day slowly bled into the nighttime hours. The shame and embarrassment clear in his appearance was answer enough for any question you ached to ask him. 

A soft sigh passes through your lips as you push yourself from the doorframe, and step quietly back into the kitchen. He may have slipped by you in a brisk flash, but it was still a long enough glance to spot the blackness swelling beneath his right eye. His flesh bruised and throbbing with pain, as though it had it's own voice to scream out it's agony. And the sight brought familiar tears to your eyes. 

There wasn't a thing you could do to stop it. No matter how much you wished you could take the beatings for him, all you could do was wait and see the aftermath. He was strong in so many ways, but you knew eventually the bulling was bound to wear him down to nothing. And the idea twisted your stomach into a million tiny knots. 

Steve would have known what to do... what to say to him... how to help him. 

But it was just you now. Just you and your son, who was more like his father in ways he didn't even know.

Running a hand over your face, to clear away any fallen tears, you breathed in a deep breath. One that rushed into your lungs swiftly and clearly, and you prayed it would be enough to get you through this. And walking to the staircase, you begin to climb the many steps slowly. You tried to think of the things Steve would've said, when your son came home beat to a pulp by some local bullies, but nothing seemed real enough. Nothing seemed like it would mean anything if it came from your lips, and not his father's. 

Closing your eyes, as you take one last deep breath, your knuckles knock softly on the first wooden door on the left as you reach the top of the hallway. And they only slowly begin to reopen as you hear rustling behind the door, and a soft murmur allowing you to enter. 

Twisting the knob hesitantly, you step into the dimly lit bedroom. And looking around the small space, you spot your son sitting slouched over on his loosely made bed. The sheets wrinkled beneath his legs as he sits in the middle on top of the covers. And spread out in front of him, the covers quickly shut by his swollen and bloody hands, are comic books. 

"Did you need something Ma?" 

His voice was strained, tired and his eyes avoided meeting your gaze. As though he might turn to stone if he did. But it took you a moment to fully hear his question, as your attention was so deeply focused in on the many comic books that you hadn't seen in what felt like forever. Ever since your son had moved on from that phase in his childhood, those thin books sat in a brown box in the back of his closet. The illustrations and the stories no longer seeing the light of day. Until now.