Work Text:
- 1930 -
James was thirteen, walking home from whatever trouble he had roused that day, when he came across a group of kids in Hell's Kitchen beating down a scrawny blond at a back alley. And James Buchanan Barnes, being impressed by the kids resiliency, went ahead and helped the kid. During the fight, in addition to a gnarly purple lump over his cheekbone and a hell of an ache over his ribcage, he gained a best friend he would have 'till the day he died. Steven Grant Rogers was his name, Steve just for short, an orphan aged twelve and already angry at the world. But luckily, so was James, or Bucky, as Steve began to call him quickly after learning his middle name.
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"What kind of a name is Buchanan? Sounds too fancy for a kid from Brooklyn," Steve glanced at James, then biting the straw from his milkshake. The older kid had bought Steve one, partly because he felt like the little guy deserved one after the beating in the back alley, and partly because he also wanted some, but wasn't selfish enough to buy himself a whole glass. James poked his own straw in to the vanilla drink and scoffed: "Steven Grant sounds like an old man." Then proceeded to lean over the table of their booth and suck a mouthful of milkshake out of the glass.
Steve rolled his eyes: "It's Steve." James leaned to take another sip from the milkshake, but the action was met with a smile and the glass shoved to his side of the table. "It's yours-," the boy started. Steve waved a frail hand: "Shush Bucky, I already drank half."
James sipped on the drink, swallowed, then laughed: "Bucky?"
Steve shrugged: "Well I can't call you James, because that's the name of the guy that just finished giving me this black 'n blue cheek. And as I already mentioned, Buchanan is way too classy for a kid like you."
"So... Bucky?"
"Bucky."