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Bones cracked as the fist smashed into his face, and Steve couldn’t tell if it was his nose or Harry’s fingers. Either way, the pain wasn’t going away anytime soon, and— smack —-neither was that black eye, unfortunately.
His labored breathing sounded heavy in his ears, and he knew that if he didn’t find a way out of this fight soon, Harry wouldn’t need to finish him off; the asthma would.
“Had enough yet, Rogers?” Harry shoved his ugly mug into Steve’s face, mouth twisted in a sneer.
Steve swiped blood away from the corner of his mouth, bouncing on the balls of his feet even as his head pounded and the world spun. “I could do this all day.”
“We have something in common, then; so could I.” A right hook, then a slam into Steve’s abdomen, causing him to double over. “You’re right, Rogers, this is kinda fun.” He grabbed Steve’s shoulders and brought his knee up to smack into Steve’s face.
A fresh wave of pain blossomed, bringing tears to his eyes. Okay, that one hurt just a little. He brought his eyes up to meet Harry’s, giving him a taunting smirk. “Is that the best you’ve got?”
Black spots danced in his vision. He really should quit; he knew that. But the thought of begging for mercy from Harry Reynalds enhanced his stomach pain by two hundred percent. The thought of running didn’t sit well either, but it was better than being a blubbering coward—or dying. Of course, Harry would catch him before he’d get five feet away. He was cornered. But it was still worth a shot...right?
He shot his leg forward and hooked it around Harry’s ankle, pulling the bully’s foot out from underneath him and sending him to the alley’s floor with a heavy thud. He took off toward the street, limping, knowing that if he could just make it to the crowd milling on the sidewalk, he could blend in and make his escape. No one would pay attention to a ten-year-old asthmatic.
He’d almost made it when— “ oof”— a hand grabbed the back of his shirt collar and jerked him backward, sending him sprawling to the ground. He fought the urge to curl into a fetal position and pray for a quick death, instead forcing his feet underneath him and turning to face the music. If I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die on my own two feet. And everyone will remember me like Davy Crockett, and maybe they’ll make a monument for me.
Harry stepped closer, a triumphant smirk lifting the corner of his mouth.
Maybe they’ll even write a song about me, or at the very least hang my fourth grade photo on the school wall.
Harry grabbed the front of Steve’s shirt in his meaty hand and cocked back his fist.
I know I’m only ten years old, but I really wish that I’d written out my last will and testament. I know mom told me not to think about it, but golly, we’re already well into the twentieth century. It’s about time kids my age start thinking about the future.
Despite his noble intentions, Steve squeezed his eyes shut in anticipation of the pummeling that he knew would be his end. I'm sorry, Mom, you're gonna have to find someone else to be the man of the house from now on.
But the fist never came. Instead, Harry's fist was ripped from his shirt, and Steve's eyes popped open just in time to see the bully flop to the ground with a groan. Bucky stood over him, feet planted and fists raised.
"If you ever beat up on Steve again, Harry Reynalds, I promise you that the whole city of Brooklyn will feel your pain." The fury in Bucky's voice sent a terrified thrill down Steve's spine, even as he sighed in relief.
Bucky stood still, not taking his eyes off Harry until the boy had scrambled to his feet and disappeared out of sight. Then he turned to Steve and sucked in a breath. "That doesn't look too good."
Steve staggered to the wall and leaned against it, swiped a hand under his nose, and rubbed the smear of blood off onto his pants. "I was taking care of him," he wheezed.
"Sure. That's why he was shaking in his boots before you." Bucky pulled a kerchief out of his pocket and handed it to his friend. "Here. Hold it against your nose. We can't help your black eye, but at least your mom won't freak out as much if she doesn't see any actual blood."
"My mom doesn't have to see any of this."
"How do you think you're going to keep it from her?" Bucky crossed his arms. "You gonna lie to her again?"
Steve shrugged, not meeting his eyes. "What she doesn't know won't kill her." He ignored the worm of guilt that wiggled into his mind.
"Maybe, but it's gonna come back to kill you ." Bucky sighed. "Can you walk?"
"It's my face that's smashed; not my legs."
"Just checking." Bucky still stuck close as they made their way to the end of the alley. "Steve, when are you ever going to stop fighting the bad guys?"