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The streets of 1930s Brooklyn weren’t kind to many - only the richest, most upper-crust were able to weather the Depression without their cheeks becoming a bit more gaunt and their belts tightening a notch or two. Desperation, or maybe resignation that times might never improve, drove many to a level of cruelty they would have never considered in more prosperous circumstances.
But not everyone felt that way.
“No need for trouble, miss. Just hand over the bag and we all go about our days, nice and easy.”
“Please, just let me go, my family needs this-”
“Yeah, join the club. Or the breadline, I don’t care which. Just hand it over before I need to do something I might regret.”
The knife in the man’s hand had seen better days before it was sharpened so thin, just as his coat had been high-quality once before overuse had worn it threadbare. The woman he threatened was in no better condition, with matching holes in her gloves and hose. She clutched the small grocery bag to her chest as she trembled, eyes huge with fear.
“My boy, he’s sick,” she said, voice choking up. “He’s so fragile, he can’t wait in the breadline, and they won’t let me take extra to him…”
“Cry me a river,” snapped her attacker. “You think you’re the only one with a sob story?”
“The lady asked you to step back,” a new voice rang out. “I suggest you listen to her.”
The man with the knife turned and started to laugh. A smaller man stood at the entrance to the alley, glaring fiercely as he held up his fists. He was skinny, but in the way that said he’d always been so, not just since food became more scarce. He was also almost a foot shorter than the man he was challenging.
“What’re you gonna do, pipsqueak?” he said with a snort. “Bite my ankles? Tickle my knees? Get out of here, before I make you.”
The smaller man said nothing, but edged closer, fists at the ready. The armed man rolled his eyes and turned fully, brandishing his knife. Sandy blonde hair fell into the short man’s eyes as he feinted a swing at the big man’s head, prompting a retaliatory swing of the knife in his general direction. But he’d anticipated it, and grabbed the arm as it whooshed past him. He managed to knock the knife away as the unencumbered arm landed a punch on his cheek.
He reeled back, bringing his fists up to guard his face again. He tried to hit back, but his swing was knocked away easily as the bigger man landed another blow with his dominant hand, knocking him to the ground. He scrambled back up, grabbing a trash can lid as a shield. Curling his lip in derision, the mugger pulled it out of his hands and used his lack of balance to hit him down again.
“Had enough yet?”
“I could do this all day,” the smaller man gasped, lip bleeding. He glanced behind him and saw with pleasure that the lady had made her escape. He swung and missed again.
“Hey, pick on someone your own size!” a new voice called out. The mugger spun, only to receive a punch to the face by a new man, one who outstripped him in height and build. Intimidated by his size, the mugger fled.
The small man braced his arms on his knees as he caught his breath. “Thanks,” he gasped. “But I had it under control.”
“Of course you did, kiddo. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you like getting punched. What was it this time?”
“He was mugging a woman for her food.”
The big man hugged the smaller man, enveloping him in his muscular arms. “I wish you’d stop putting yourself in harm’s way, but you’ve got a good heart, Ro.”
Roman leaned into the hug. “Thanks, Pat.”
“Now let’s get you home, and cleaned up.”
The two men walked back through dingy streets and narrow alleys before arriving at a brownstone. “You know,” Pat started.
“I know what you’re gonna say,” Roman grumbled, searching for his apartment key.
“You could come upstairs, we could put the couch cushions on the floor like when we were little. It could be fun!”
“Thank you, Pat,” the short man said, looking up at his oldest friend. “But I can get by on my own.”
“I know you can, Ro. You’re the toughest guy I know. The thing is, you don’t have to. I’m with you to the end, kiddo.”
Roman swallowed back the threat of tears. “Thanks, Patton.”
The grating of metal and harsh thump of explosions rattled around them as the helicarrier slowly fell out of the sky. Scraping through office buildings, tilting from failed engines, heavy steel beams fell around the two men locked in combat.
The Winter Soldier refused to yield. His metal arm shown in the surrounding fires as he threw another punch, hitting Roman in the face once more. Roman’s mouth was bleeding, but he still had a grip on his vibranium shield. His huge frame, granted to him by a brilliant scientist’s serum, was tough, tough enough to withstand the violence of the highly trained assassin who was his opponent. Had he tried, the New Yorker now known as Captain America could have defeated the Russian asset, neutralizing him the way he’d taken down so many enemies before. But this was not just any enemy. This one, Roman knew better than any of his new, 21st century companions. He remembered him better than he remembered either of his parents.
The Winter Soldier was none other than Patton, the man he’d mourned ever since that terrible moment above the Danube, when he’d watched Pat fall into the icy river 500 feet below them. Since he’d tried and failed to save him. His last glimpse of his face had been a mask of terror as his grip slipped. The last words he’d heard were “Ro, I’m fa-” and then nothing but the ripping wind around them and the rumble of the train they’d been clinging to.
He had been changed, brainwashed, and morphed into a weapon. But from the minute his face mask had been ripped off, Roman knew him. It was his Patton. Far more than 50 years would have to pass for him to not recognize him in an instant. And there was no way Roman would willingly hurt him again.
He staggered back as Patton punched him in the face again, his face a grim mask of concentration. “You know me,” he said, refusing to retaliate.
“No I don’t,” his opponent spat out, kicking him in the stomach.
Double over in pain, Roman kept talking. “Pat, you’ve known me your whole life.” Another punch, this time caught on his shield. “Your name is Patton Buchanan Barnes, you’re from Brooklyn-”
“Shut UP!” the assassin yelled. He punched Roman right in the sternum, knocking him back into a fallen steel beam. His face contorted in confusion as he stared at the opponent who wouldn’t punch back.
Roman removed his helmet. “I’m not gonna fight you, Patton.” He let his shield fall in a clatter until it bounced out a whole in the floor and fell out of sight. “You’re my love.”
“You’re my mission,” the Winter Soldier growled, and tackled the larger man to the ground. Holding him down with his knees, he punched him in the face, over and over, metal fist against bone, again and again.
“Then finish it, Pat,” Roman gasped, spitting out blood. His faces was a tapestry of bruises and cuts as he stared at the scowling man above him. “‘Cause I’m with you to the end.”
The assassin paused, eyes wide. His arm was still poised to land the final blow, but he was just staring, breathing heavily. Emotions played over his face: confusion, sorrow, regret.
“...kiddo?” he breathed.
Roman smiled through his injuries, eyes lighting up as he spoke. “Welcome back, Pat. I missed you.”