Prompt: (3) Ragged
POV: Bucky Barnes, 3rd person
mmm
Steve had always suffered with pride. It was his greatest weakness.
The thing was, Bucky mused, Steve was aware of it. You didn’t grow up in nineteen-twenties Brooklyn unaware of your flaws; they were highlighted weekly at Church, just in case your parents were doing a piss poor job of letting you know, and in case the preacher had forgotten, every adult in the general area felt an unction to point out your misdemeanours – from your teachers to the local shopkeepers.
It was enough to drive you mad on its own, at least if you paid them any attention. And Steve did. He respected his elders right up until they failed the Steven G Rogers’ litmus test on equity. Steve had gotten his morals from his Ma; a strong sense of fairness and righteousness and the drive to march into places and demand action - or at least, to be heard. Sarah Rogers was a force of nature, and the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree. Steve believed in truth with a fervour that had Bucky feeling like a cad whenever he lied to his Ma, and he believed in justice like it was a tangible thing. With Steve punching everyone who disagreed with him, Bucky supposed it
was pretty tangible.
But Steve didn’t have the presence or power to match his personality, and the disparity was galling. Steve clearly resented the weakness of his body and hated the asthma which enfeebled it further with every passing year. Getting a cold in winter was an awful trial which lasted weeks, followed by several months of recuperation and getting stronger before the cycle started again, tripping hazard wires with every change in the weather and woe betide him if he got a summer sniffle, because life was a misery with his lungs. Mrs Rogers erred on the side of caution and refused to let Bucky in the house if either of them looked sickly, in case poor Steve worsened. Bucky generally tended to lurk out of sight of Steve’s Ma and would then crawl in through the window after she’d gone to work or bed. The Rogers’ place was always cold, but Bucky tended to run hot anyway. It was no never mind to Bucky to slip into Steve’s chilled room and bunk with his friend, sharing stories and heat – it was worth it to make sure he made it through the nights. Bucky’s Ma had fewer worries, since the Barnes’ brood were a hardy lot, and she’d often press a flagon of hot broth into Bucky’s hands as he attempted to steal out of the house with an overnight bag. Not a lot happened in the Barnes’ household that Ma Barnes didn’t know about, but she approved of Bucky trying to keep Steve alive with his illness-prone body in the harsh winters. If a couple of extra blankets made their way to the Rogers’ home, it wasn’t because she was unaware of it.
Of course, none of this held Steve back from waging his personal war against bullies whenever he was hale. Bucky didn’t quite know why he’d agreed to train Steve in the proper technique, apart from wanting his friend to be able to defend himself better. It generally didn’t help; once Steve had been hit, his stance went to the wall and his guard dropped, lax and wide. He was scrappy though, and was liable to pick up anything he found on his brief sojourns to the ground. Bucky’d been on the receiving end of everything from banana skins to breadbins, wielded haphazardly – proof that Steve could look after himself for a while, before his stamina ran out and his lungs couldn’t cope. Bucky never wanted to see what happened then, and if he’d taken to stalking the alleyways and car parks he knew Steve might frequent, he wasn’t sorry, for seven times out of ten he was in time to save Steve from a beatdown by a bigger guy. The other times, Steve was at home, righteously offended that Bucky would even presume he might be causing trouble in alleyways. It made for a delicate balancing act, not humiliating his friend while dispatching his aggrieved opponent, who, more often than not, had not in fact started it.
It had been a surprise when Steve had come along to the boxing gym where Bucky trained.
Steve had turned up one day, and watched critically as Bucky and his fellow students were tasked into the ring to spar in two-minute bursts with the winner generally staying on. Bucky had seen his cogs whirring almost as soon as the guys were put through their paces. They were all at varying stages, but Tanner, the retired US Naval Chief Petty Officer who ran the club, knew what he was at and ran it like a ship - entirely in keeping with his past – and the whole thing went like clockwork.
Bucky, sixteen and skilled, generally tended to be one of the last called, since Tanner started easy and liked to give the boys something neat to watch, with successive fighters being more skilled and thus the fights being more exciting. Tonight, he was near the end, coming in fresh and easily holding his own against Jim McMurphy who was already tired from winning his previous two bouts. The difference in quality was seen directly; McMurphy was heavier-set and just didn’t have the speed Bucky was taunting him with; although he did pack a wallop when he connected, he liked to grab and hold before he hit. Bucky’s technique against him was to avoid the grab, dancing in and out of range after delivering his own packet of fury, picking off his opponent in short bursts.
Bucky glanced over at Steve when Tanner stopped the fight to give the other boy pointers for next time, watching his friend taking on board the advice; Steve would be a menace to society with a healthy body, he just knew it. But his next opponent, Micky Fletcher, was climbing into the ring and in short order Tanner was giving them the go ahead.
Micky fared little better than McMurphy, his sloppy technique visibly letting his guard down and giving Bucky far too many opportunities. Bucky rolled his eyes at Steve’s thumbs up as the bout came to a close. As a third opponent tapped in, Bucky rolled his shoulders to loosen them, grinning at his new sparring partner and raising one eyebrow in silent challenge. Angelo Genovese was a good fighter, and Bucky’d lost as many fights as he’d won against him. Their private war was strictly limited to the ring, since the boys were friendly. Not to mention that Angelo’s Pa had designs on Bucky’s future career, so sometimes invited him over to give him errands to run for cash. Mr Genovese’d been doing it ever since Bucky’d hit his teens, (but his Ma would’ve had a fit, so the less she knew about it the better).
The two were pretty equally matched at first glance. The first blows traded were fast and sharp, both sides landing and reeling from the fallout.
Angelo was cocky and brash, but his guard was flawless, and every blow was calculated. Bucky found himself on the defensive soon enough, as Angelo pressed his advantage. He kept his gloves up, giving ground quickly, turning the tables with a tight volley of hits, but he was getting tired now. He didn’t press hard enough and Angelo’s retaliatory strike caught him by surprise; trying to summon up another burst of energy was not going to happen when the other boy gave no quarter. Bucky found himself hemmed in, the ropes the only thing holding him up at one point – guard up, covering his head as Angelo exploited his moment of weakness, tight little punches aimed at Bucky’s poorly-shielded body sapping his energy. Only damnable stubbornness lifted him out of it; making himself smaller, he used his thighs, twisting in close to his assailant unexpectedly and punching up straight into his face, certainly harder than anticipated. Angelo reeled back, stumbling as he fought to keep his feet under him, Bucky following it up with a relentless assault until Angelo was on the floor and Tanner was between them.
“Good job, Barnes,” the trainer remarked calmly, fist bumping Bucky’s glove and raising his arm high. “C’mon, Genovese. Get your ass up.”
Bucky met his friend’s eyes wearily. Offering his hand to the downed Angelo, the other boy took it with reluctant grace.
“I had you on the ropes,” Angelo complained, rubbing his face gingerly as he stood.
“Yeah? Don’t mean nuthin’ t’Barnes,” McMurphy drawled from somewhere down below. “Boy don’t know when t’quit.”
Bucky gave a tired grin, threw an arm around Angelo’s sweaty head and kissed his dripping temple in mute apology. “I thought you had me too, pal,” he offered. “Guess it was my lucky day, today.”
“I reckon you just wanted it more,” Mr Genovese’s voice cut through the air. “Nice work, kid. I always liked your style.”
“Uh,” Bucky looked wildly embarrassed, threw an apologetic look at Angelo and ducked his head. “Thanks, Mr Genovese. I didn’t know you were watching.”
“We only got here a few minutes ago,” Angelo’s father answered, one hand encompassing his entourage, who seemed to have taken over the gym. “Enough time to be thoroughly entertained. C’mon, Angelo, family night tonight. Another time, kid.”
“Right,” Angelo swung into high gear, collecting his kit with the help of one of his father’s mooks, who helped unlace his gloves. “Get ya next time, Barnes.”
Bucky laughed and gave a wave as the sweaty teen was ushered out, nodding deferentially to Mr Genovese, who followed his son with a final gesture at Bucky. Steve’d watched the exchange, jaw set, a frown settling between his eyes as he stared at the door they departed through.
Once they’d gone Bucky dropped his arms onto the ropes and climbed through, pulling at his gloves’ ties with his teeth until Steve came across and batted his hands until Bucky let him help untie them.
“I thought he had you there,” Steve muttered, focused on his task.
“Yeah,” Bucky said wearily. “Me too.”
“He almost did,” Tanner said matter-of-factly, coming over to debrief Bucky on the many things he could’ve done better. Bucky nodded and pretended to agree. “I can read ya like a book, son,” Tanner grinned, slapping his shoulder. “You ain’t listened to a word I said since I told ya to stop being proud you can take a lickin’.”
Bucky barked out a laugh, mostly at Steve’s mulish expression, and pulled his hands out of his loosened gloves.
Tanner followed his look and smiled wryly. He’d seen Bucky arrive with bruises or favouring a limb and he never poked his nose in. Bucky was no man’s fool though, clearly Tanner had taken it upon himself to make sure Bucky never seriously hurt anyone in his gym; he’d had to stop matches before, like today – and Bucky’d overheard him once, saying that there was something feral in the Barnes kid which got mean when cornered.
“Who’s ya friend, Barnes?” Tanner asked.
“This is Stevie,” Bucky answered, ignoring Steve’s sputtered,
Steve! “I’ve been teaching him some things. This is Tanner. He owns the place.”
Tanner, whatever he thought about that, kept it to himself. “Oh yeah?” he asked Steve. “He a good teacher?”
Steve raised his chin. “The best,” he answered stoutly.
Bucky laughed some more, and stood up unsteadily. Tanner eyed him critically.
“Steve, you mind getting him some water?” he said, gesturing vaguely across the room.
“This the kid your Pa was telling me about?” Tanner asked.
“Probably,” Bucky said with a shrug. Who else would his Da be talking about?
“He looks like a stiff breeze’d knock him down,” Tanner remarked casually. “You wanna go careful there.”
“Yeah, I got it,” Bucky said, turning away, stubbornness to the fore.
“I meant,” Tanner said to his back, “that I don’t wanna see you coming in here with yet more injuries.”
Bucky’s spine went ramrod straight and he whirled round, eyes wide. “You don’t want me here?”
“Kid,” Tanner breathed out a longsuffering sigh. “I didn’t say that. I don’t wanna see you getting unnecessarily hurt.”
Bucky stared at a point on the wall, biting the inside of his cheek.
Tanner sighed again. “Look, kid. I just call it as I see it, okay? You’re hanging out with this Steve and getting into fights for him, and don’t think I missed that little tete-a-tete you had with Mr Genovese. You know who he works for. That’s a connection your Pa wouldn’t like.”
Bucky’s mouth pulled into a little moue of distaste. He didn’t get into fights for Steve, just – well, mainly because of Steve. There was a difference. And regarding Mr Genovese, his parents wouldn’t like it, for sure, but Mr Genovese was offering him work, and well-paid work, which was more than anyone else had offered. “You gonna tell him?” he asked shortly.
“I think a man’s gotta make his own mistakes in life,” Tanner said carefully. “But I also think he deserves to make a choice based on good information. I ain’t gonna tell your Pa, kid. I think you should talk it over with him though.”
The way Bucky’s lip curled may have told Tanner what he thought of that suggestion, but he didn’t respond as Steve came back with water.
The conversation naturally curtailed with Steve’s return, but clearly the air was thick with tension as Steve looked interestedly between the two of them. He packed up his stuff quickly and left with Steve, who was obviously fighting with himself to be polite and not inquire, whilst being simultaneously alive with curiosity. Since Bucky had no intention of talking about it in the slightest, he encouraged the former by talking about anything and everything else. He had no illusions that Steve would forget it, but at least he let it drop.
Bucky didn’t give Tanner the opportunity to talk to him like that again. Leaving school at sixteen, full of brash confidence and darkly suspecting Tanner of being a do-gooder, Bucky kept him at arm’s length. He obeyed the man’s rules in the gym, and kept his conversation limited to sport. Steve would come and watch him spar sometimes, but he never joined the gym himself.
Bucky gradually gained more control in his boxing technique, although he could never be called a defensive fighter, preferring to go on the offensive almost every time. He was aware of the hypocrisy of giving Steve defensive advice he himself rarely used, but it was amusing every time Steve told him he’d had someone
on the ropes.
His developing working relationship with Mr Genovese was a private affair, conducted outside of the gym and Tanner’s sphere of influence. At eighteen, he was earning pretty good money and wearing a tailored three-piece suit to work. He was still living at home, officially, but most of the time it was just easier to bunk down in one of the Boss’s many spare bedrooms. He still gave half his pay to his Ma for rent, but he was barely there overnight anymore. Bucky’d never asked what Steve thought of this arrangement, and by the time he turned nineteen, had enough money saved to get his own apartment – though his Ma kept his bed made up at home, just in case.
He still spent a lot of time with his friend (who probably thought he was a chauffeur) in his time off, but Steve’s Ma had gotten really sick recently; she wasn’t getting better, and Steve was distracted. Bucky took him places to get his mind off the morbid thoughts he was mired in; fairs, museums, even a boat trip (that was a mistake). He dropped by every so often and surreptitiously left fresh food in the house, left money in the tin to help with the bills, brought round his Ma’s cooking, but she wasn’t getting better. By the next fall Sarah Rogers had succumbed to her illness.
Steve had found her body one morning, having passed sometime in the night. Bucky had turned up later that day and found his friend, barely eighteen and newly alone in the world, trying to breathe through stifled sobs on the fire escape. It was easy enough to help Steve make the necessary arrangements, but trying to get him to come back for dinner was difficult. He’d never liked accepting charity for himself. Of course, once he was out of the apartment, Bucky had better luck taking him back to the Barnes’ family home before heading off to work; Steve had spent the evening being smothered in Barnes’ women concern and the night in Bucky’s old bed, while Bucky crashed on the couch when he came back in the early hours. When Steve came down to breakfast the next day, no one mentioned his red-rimmed eyes. Bucky’d taken some days off, and proceeded to cart him off round town to the funeral parlor and the pastor, stopping out for lunch to give his Ma and sisters time to go over and clean up the apartment while they were out.
Of course, Steve had retreated to the cold, empty place as soon as he could, making himself hard to reach in a misguided attempt to not be a burden in his grief. It wasn’t until the card appeared on the mat that anyone heard from him again, and it merely detailed the date and time of the funeral.
Steve’d looked desolate in the vast Church building, sat in the front row mostly ignoring other folks as the service went on. Bucky’s Ma had made him sit with the family rather than go up with Steve, so he’d spent the whole thing just watching the forlorn little figure of his friend all alone up at the front.
Bucky’d tried to catch up with him after, but Steve somehow managed to sneak out unseen. Bucky did check the alleyways around the Church, just in case anyone was beating the snot outta him, but eventually just wandered the streets back home after the service, looking for Steve and failing to find him. It wasn’t until much later that he caught up with a somewhat drained and emotional Steve dejectedly wandering back through the streets, unseeing. Bucky fell in step beside him, not having the words as he followed him back home, but eventually blurting, “We looked for you - after. My folks wanted to give you a ride to the cemetery.”
Steve looked vaguely guilty. “I know, I'm sorry. I just... kind of wanted to be alone.”
Bucky let it go. “How was it?” he asked.
“It was okay,” Steve shrugged one slight shoulder, barely whispering. “She's next to Dad.”
Bucky grimaced in sympathy. “I was gonna ask...”
Steve interrupted. “I know what you're gonna say, Buck. I just...”
Bucky continued as if Steve wasn’t trying to be manly and stoic and foolish. “We can put the couch cushions on the floor like when we were kids. It'll be fun. All you gotta do is shine my shoes, maybe take out the trash.”
mmm
mmm
He tried for a smirk, but it was lost on Steve, who was not in the mood for jesting, and had clearly misplaced his keys. Bucky kicked a brick aside, picked up the spares from under it. “Here, come on,” he said, handing them over.
“Thank you, Buck,” Steve replied primly, donning the Sarah Rogers’ we-accept-no-charity-here stance. “But I can get by on my own.”
Bucky repressed a sigh. “The thing is, you don't have to.” He scrunched his face into a wry grimace. “You don’t always gotta be a punk.”
“Jerk,” Steve muttered, without heat.
“Yeah,” Bucky lolled against the bricks with a smirk. “I know. Better’n bein’ alone though. C’mon, y’ain’t gotta shine anythin’. My Ma wants to make sure you’re okay.”
“Don’t blame your Ma-” Steve started hotly, before looking down, unable to swallow past the lump in his throat.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Bucky soothed, feeling wretched. “I wanna make sure you’re okay, too. We don’t gotta do this right now. Here, let me make somethin’ ta eat.” He took the keys out of Steve’s unresisting fingers and opened the door into the apartment, striding in to put the kettle on the hob and listening for the little snick of the door closing behind him which told him Steve had accepted this intrusion.
It was awful, and so so quiet here, but at least Steve wasn’t alone with his grief.
