Chapter Text
It was the last day of Summer '88 and James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes was driving to Coney Island. The Brooklyn sun beat heavily on Bucky as he cruised down the road in his red convertible, a light wind tousling his otherwise neatly styled hair. He'd be meeting his friend Clint down by the pier and they'd celebrate their last day of freedom before the new semester began the next day. By tomorrow, he'll officially be a Junior. He found it a little bittersweet, how quickly time slipped through his hands.
Soon enough, however, he found himself coming slowly to a stop as he found the road blocked by a decent sized protest. Leaning over his door, he strained to get a closer look at the crowd, before deciding it'd just be easier to stop his car and get out. Parking it (illegally) on the curbside, he turned off the ignition and hopped out of his seat, stuffing his keys into his pocket.
The protest was more or less peaceful, if not for a handful of rowdier demonstrators strewn throughout the cluster of people. As he came closer, he realized what everyone was there for – AIDS. Men and women alike carried signs touting pro-LGBT messages, demanding respect and proper attention to the epidemic. As Bucky gazed at the growing procession, he was shocked to bring his eyes to the back of the crowd and spot a kid from school. He'd never spoken to him before, not even in passing – the kid usually kept to himself anyway. Despite that, however, he usually found himself the target of incessant teasing and bullying. If Bucky was completely honest, he never saw why the other kids at school felt the need to pick on him so much – he was all of, what, 5'5”? Bucky had only a few classes with him, though he didn't see him around much often, usually out of school for some ailment every other week.
Now imagine Bucky's surprise at seeing this scrawny kid, all sharp lines and jutting bones, yelling and marching along with the impassioned mass. As Bucky watched, the kid found himself face to face with a particularly angered opposer, about a foot taller than him, and yet, to Bucky's amazement, he didn't back down. In fact, the kid pushed him, earning him a clean sock to the nose.
Bucky doesn't know what came over him, or why, but before he knew it, he found himself running to the scrawny, quiet kid from school splayed on the pavement with a bloody nose. He dropped to his knees beside him, placing his hands on either of the kids shoulders and lifting him up from the ground. The kid soon blinked back into awareness, flailing his arms and yelling at Bucky to take your damn hands off me, asshole, his efforts all for naught against Bucky's runner's strength.
“Hey, hey, take it easy, little guy,” Bucky yelled back, promptly lifting his hands up in the air. “I came to help. You got pretty banged up by that guy back there.”
The kid only scowled at Bucky before lifting his fingers to his upper lip, warm blood coming off on his fingertip.
“I don't need your help,” the kid gritted. “I had the situation handled.”
Bucky couldn't help but laugh at this kid. Not maliciously, but God, what a seriously stubborn kid.
“Really?' Bucky asked. “Cause it seems like you were the only thing that got handled in that ordeal.” Bucky gestured to the kid's nose, bruised and bloody.
The kid's head snapped back up to meet Bucky's head. “I had it. I can handle myself just fine.”
Bucky only shook his head. The crowd was now further up the street, the shouts from the crowd fading out of earshot.
“Come on, let's get up to the sidewalk,” Bucky offered, rising up from his position on the street. Steve slowly pulled himself up to his legs, wobbling a little bit as he stood. Bucky came to his side again.
“Hey, hey, easy now, let's just make it over here,” he cooed, guiding Steve to the sidewalk near his car. Steve rested against a lamp post, Bucky leaning against his car door. Steve kept his eyes glued to the ground, arms folded tightly across his chest. He was wearing a faded The Smith's t-shirt, tucked into his jeans that were rolled at the cuffs, revealing bony ankles that disappeared into a beat up pair of Converse. Bucky would be lying if he said he didn't find it charming, in a little way. The kid definitely stuck to his guns.
“I've seen you around school,” Bucky began. “I'm James Barnes. But friends call me Bucky.” He smiled and held his hand out to shake.
The kid's tilted his head slightly to make eye contact with Bucky. His eyes squinted slightly in the glare of the sun, Bucky awash in the burning orange of a setting sun in front of him.
“I know who you are,” the kid murmured. “How could I not? You're the talk of the whole school.”
Bucky grinned cockily. He was one of the most popular athletes in his school, known for his achievements in track.
“Well, since we have that out of the way, what's your name, little guy?” Bucky cracked a toothy smile, but the kid's face remained pensive.
“Steve,” he finally muttered. “Steve Rogers.”
Bucky's smile grew wider. “Nice to meet you, Rogers. Now, what do you say you hop in with me and I can get you back home? That nose ain't gonna get any better standing out here.”
Steve looked from Bucky's face down to his shoes. He considered his options, but found himself shit out of luck. “Fine,” he agreed.
Bucky smiled again and opened the driver side door. Steve walked around the front of the convertible and reluctantly opened the passenger side door, plopping unceremoniously into the seat.
“Where do you live?” Bucky asked as he put the key in the ignition.
Steve's arms remained folded. “5th and Harris St. It's not far from here.”
Bucky's jaw dropped a little. “I live down the street from there!”
Steve turned his head to Bucky then back out to the road.
“Small world.”
Steve knew Bucky lived down the street from him. He'd seen him jogging down the road every day after school and every morning on the weekends. Steve had spent many sick days looking out his bedroom window as Bucky sprinted steadily past his family's Brooklyn brownstone.
When Steve got punched out by the bigot at the protest - not before being called a nasty faggot, you dog - the last thing he expected to see when he came to was the very boy he'd spent so much time ogling in secret, the star-athlete of Erskine High. The embarrassment of being taken out so easily was only amplified by being seen at his weakest by the cutest thing on two legs he'd ever seen. When he realized who it was who had come to aid him, self-preservation kicked into the place where gratitude should have been in an attempt to scare him off before Bucky had the chance to realize who he was.
Not that Steve really expected him to recognize him in the first place. Who would notice tiny, scrawny Steve, the kid who's always out of school with a new ailment every week, the easy target for anyone above 5'9"? Even so, Steve couldn't take his chances. What if Bucky realized who it was, laughed straight in his face, and told all his jock buddies at school the next day that I saw that twerp at a fag rally yesterday? Steve couldn't bear it. He'd already had a hard enough time without any gay rumors circulating. Then they'd really be out for blood.
Nonetheless, even with the surrounding circumstances, even with Steve's efforts to act as cold and disinterested as possible - Bucky persisted. What the hell is wrong with this kid? Steve thought. Can't he take a hint?
But that, it seemed, Bucky was physically incapable of. That, or he actively chose to ignore the hint. Steve's not sure which he preferred.
Steve was snapped out of his thoughts by the sound of Bucky's cautious voice.
"Hey, look, uh," Bucky began, eyes darting around the road. "I won't tell anyone at school about this. It can be our little secret, yeah?"
Steve's stomach flipped. Our little secret. If only Bucky knew a half a thing about Steve's little secrets...
"Yeah, whatever, that's fine," Steve responded, trying so damned hard to maintain the veneer of indifference. He'd just have to make it 10 more minutes. Then he's gone. Then Steve can go back to being nobody, not even registering on Bucky's radar.
"I know," Bucky breathed, hand moving to rub the back of his neck. "I know someone who's... you know... gay. My uncle. Not that I'm making any assumptions, or anything like that, I just wanted you to know that I-"
"It's fine, I get it. Let's just drop it, alright?" Steve barked. Or, barked as much as he could. Steve looked at Bucky, watched... disappointment? register on his face, and felt a pang of guilt. As best as Steve could tell, the guy was only trying to be nice, offer a helping hand. He looked down at his now blood-stained t-shirt, blood already dried brown near the collar.
The two settled into silence, Bucky moving to turn the radio up a few notches. The enthusiastic voice of a radio host blared into Steve's ears.
"Helllooooooooooooo Brooklyn! It's the last day of Summer and I can only imagine how much all you guys out there are dreading it, but let me tell you, we've got a great lineup tonight so don't you go anywhere. Sit back and allow 105.6 to play the soundtrack of your glory days."
'Lucky Star' by Madonna piped up and Bucky raised the volume just the slightest bit more. Steve laughed to himself. Madonna? That was the last thing Steve expected to get Bucky putting his radio up.
Before Steve knew it, they were pulling up to the front of his family's home, the sun now almost fully set. Steve let out a sigh of disgruntlement. "My mother is gonna kill me," Steve sighed as he pushed open - with decent effort - the passenger side door. He hopped out and scuttled around the front of the car, practically bolting for the front door. He didn't want to hang around Bucky any longer than he had to. But, of course -
"Hey, Steve!" Bucky called out as Steve climbed the steps to his front door. "I'll see you around at school, alright?" Bucky grinned. "If your mother doesn't kill you first."
Steve flashed a weak smile, waving half-heartedly. "See you 'round."
Steve watched as Bucky smiled back and drove off into the setting twilight.
God, just wait until Natasha and Sam hear about this.