Chapter Text
Before Captain America. Before the serum, the shield and the uniform, and the photographs that would someday be printed in history books, Steve Rogers was Charlie’s irritating little brother.
That was the version of him she preferred. Small, stubborn, and frequently bleeding. Usually because he’d started a fight he had absolutely no hope of finishing.
“Don’t”
Charlie didn’t even look up from her book. Across the kitchen table, Steve froze with one sleeve halfway over his arm.
“I didn’t say anything”
“You didn’t have to”
“I was just getting my coat.”
"At eleven-thirty at night."
"Could be going for a walk."
Charlie turned a page.
"Could be."
Steve stared at her.
Charlotte Rogers had been ignoring him professionally since approximately 1924, when their mother had made the catastrophic mistake of informing a seven-year-old Charlie that being the oldest meant she ought to be responsible.
Charlie had taken this as permission to become unbearable, and at twenty-three, she had perfected it.
Her dark curls were pinned carelessly away from her face with two pencils, one of which Steve suspected belonged to him. Papers had colonised most of the tiny kitchen table, covered in Charlie's cramped handwriting. Equations ran into the margins, underneath paragraphs and occasionally directly across sentences she'd apparently decided were no longer useful. Three books sat open around her, one balanced precariously on the sugar bowl because there was nowhere else to put it.
A mug of coffee sat beside her elbow. Cold. It probably had been cold for several hours.
Steve knew better than to mention it. The last time he'd tried to take one away, Charlie had informed him that reheating coffee altered the taste. Steve had pointed out that leaving it untouched for four hours probably did too. She hadn't spoken to him for the rest of the evening.
Steve slowly pulled his coat the rest of the way on. Charlie continued reading.
He made it three steps.
“Who’s the idiot?”
Steve stopped.
“What idiot?”
“The idiot you’re planning on getting punched by.”
“I’m not planning on getting punched.”
Charlie finally raised her eyes, causing Steve to sigh audibly.
“Guy outside the cinema.”
"Of course."
"He was bothering a girl."
"Naturally."
"And Bucky—"
Charlie shut the book.
"Where is Bucky?"
Steve hesitated. That told her everything.
"Oh, for God's sake."
"He doesn't know."
"Because he would stop you."
"He'd help."
"He'd help by stopping you."
Steve’s chin lifted in that particular way Charlie had hated since he was five.
"He can't just—"
"I know."
"You don't even know what happened."
"No, but I know you."
That shut him up.
For approximately three seconds
“He grabbed her.”
Charlie looked at him properly then.
Steve’s jaw had gone tight. There was a fading bruise along his cheekbone from the last idiot he;d decided to educate on basic human decency. Or possibly the idiot before that. It was becoming increasingly difficult to keep track.
“And she told him to leave her alone?”
“Twice”
Charlie sighed. There it was. The problem with Steve was that he was usually right, he just had absolutely no sense of scale.
She stood, and Steve watched her reach for her own coat.
“Charlie.”
“What?”
“You don’t need to come.”
“No, I don’t.”
"Then why are you?"
She shoved her feet into boots.
"Because Ma's dead and apparently whatever part of your brain is responsible for self-preservation died with her."
Steve’s expression changed. Only a little. But enough. Charlie immediately wished she could reach into the air and drag the words back into her mouth.
Neither of them said anything. They were Rogerses, afterall. Rogerses were very good at not mentioning things.
Their mother’s absence still lived everywhere in the apartment. In the chipped blue mug nobody used anymore. In the forever unused coat hook by the door that Charlie still sometimes glanced at when she came home. In the fact that Steve had started looking to Charlie whenever he was ill and Charlie had started pretending she knew what the hell she was doing.
Neither of them had ever formally agreed that she was responsible for him now. It had simply happened.
Charlie hated it.
Charlie would also have killed anyone who tried to take it away from her.
Steve looked down and fiddled with his sleeve.
Charlie cleared her throat.
“Besides, if you’re determined to get yourself killed, someone ought to be there to explain to the undertaker why there’s so little of you.”
Steve’s mouth twitched.
“I’m twenty-two”
“And still apparently require supervision.”
“You’re only a year older than me”
“And look at what a difference that year makes.”
"You didn't say that when you set Mr Henderson's trousers on fire."
Charlie paused with one hand on the door.
"That was scientific experimentation."
"You were sixteen."
"I was testing combustion."
"You hated him."
"Two things can be true."
Steve tried not to smile. Charlie pointed at him.
"Don't."
"I didn't do anything."
"Your face did."
The cold hit them as soon as they stepped outside.
Brooklyn at night was never truly quiet.
Somewhere farther down the block, a couple were arguing through an open window. A radio played faintly from another apartment, all brass and static. The elevated train rattled somewhere in the distance, and the smell of cigarettes, damp pavement, and somebody’s late supper lingered between the buildings.
Steve shoved his hands into his pocket. Charlie glanced at him.
"Hat."
"I don't need one."
"It's thirty degrees."
"I'm fine."
"You had pneumonia twice before you were fifteen."
"I'm aware."
"Apparently not."
"Charlie."
She pulled the woollen hat from her own coat pocket and shoved it against his chest. Steve stared at it.
"You're impossible."
"But I’ve kept you alive. Put it on."
He did. Charlie smiled smugly.
"Don't."
"I didn't do anything."
"Your face did."
She liked throwing his own lines back at him. It was one of the few benefits of having a brother.
They'd barely reached the next block when Charlie saw Bucky.
Of course he was already there.
James Buchanan Barnes was leaning against the brick outside a closed pharmacy with his coat hanging open despite the cold, looking casually at the street around him, as if he had merely stopped there to enjoy the evening.
Two men were sprawled on the pavement. A third was holding his nose.
Bucky’s hair was slightly mussed. One knuckle bleeding. Otherwise, he looked completely unbothered.
Charlie stopped.
“Barnes.”
His head turned, and there it was. That smile. Charlie hated that smile.
Mostly because it worked.
“Dottie.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Thought you liked it.”
"I've never liked it."
"You liked it when we were ten."
"When we were ten, you ate a worm for a bet."
Bucky pushed away from the wall.
“Still would.”
“That isn’t the defence you think it is.”
Steve looked between them.
"This seems like a really productive time to talk about childhood."
Charlie ignored him.
"What happened?"
Bucky gestured toward the men on the pavement.
"Those guys."
Charlie waited.
Bucky waited.
"Excellent report."
"Thank you."
“Detailed.”
“I pride myself on clarity.”
One of the men on the pavement groaned. Charlie looked down at him.
“Is he dead?”
“Nah.”
“Shame.”
Bucky’s eyebrows went up. Charlie shrugged in response.
“What? His antics have interrupted my evening”
“Dottie, I’m starting to think you;re the violent Rogers.”
“Starting?”
Steve stepped forward.
The man still standing immediately pointed at him.
"You."
Charlie shut her eyes.
"Wonderful."
Apparently Steve had unfinished business.
He moved.
Buck caught the back of his coat before he’d managed two steps.
"Nope."
"Buck—"
"Already handled it."
"He—"
"Handled."
Steve twisted around
"Bucky."
"Steve."
“He was–”
“I know what he was doing. That’s why his nose is broken.”
The man holding his nose appeared to reconsider his life choices, and Charlie couldn’t blame him.
Bucky wasn't particularly frightening when he smiled. That was rather the problem. People saw the easy grin, the handsome face, the charm that seemed to work on shopkeepers and old ladies and girls at dance halls with equal efficiency, and forgot that James Barnes had spent most of his childhood dragging Steve out of fights.
Sometimes by joining them.
Charlie watched Steve attempt to argue his way out of Bucky's grip.
Sometimes she wondered how either had survived childhood. Then Bucky looked at her. He jerked his chin toward Steve.
"Little help?"
"No."
"Dottie."
"Stop encouraging him."
"I'm actively preventing him from getting punched."
"For once."
"That's hurtful."
"You'll recover."
His grin widened. It did something stupid to the centre of her chest. Charlie ignored that too. She was very good at ignoring things.
James Buchanan Barnes had been part of Charlie's life for so long that she couldn't remember meeting him.
There had simply always been Bucky.
Bucky stealing food from their kitchen, insisting Sarah Rogers fed him better than his own family did.
Bucky appearing at their window whenever Steve was sick, despite being told he’s contagious. That apparently meant very little to a twelve-year-old James Barnes.
Bucky taking Steve to baseball games when Charlie was studying. Bucky sitting at the end of Charlie’s bed while she revised, talking until she threatened to throw a textbook at his head.
Bucky flirting shamelessly with every woman between Brooklyn and Manhattan.
Bucky flirting slightly differently with Charlie.
That was the problem.
Charlie knew him too well.
She knew when the smile was real and when it wasn't.
She knew he rubbed the back of his neck when he was nervous and cracked his left thumb when he was angry. She knew he hated pears but ate them whenever Mrs Rogers put them in front of him because he'd been raised with enough manners to understand that refusing food in the Rogers household was practically a criminal offence.
She knew his father frightened him more than he'd ever admit.
She knew not to ask about the nights he appeared at their apartment after midnight and claimed he’d simply been passing. Sarah had known too. She’d never asked either. Just simply put a blanket on the sofa.
She knew he always walked closest to the road when they were together, even though Charlie had repeatedly informed him that if a vehicle mounted the pavement, his body was unlikely to prove particularly effective protection.
He did it anyway.
And Bucky knew her. Which was considerably worse.
He knew Charlotte Rogers was frightened of thunderstorms despite understanding the physics of them perfectly.
He knew she cried when she was furious and hated herself for it.
He knew she still spoke aloud to her mother when she thought she was alone.
He knew she secretly enjoyed dancing despite claiming it was a frivolous waste of time.
He knew exactly which records she liked.
He knew precisely how to make her laugh when she was trying very hard not to.
He knew she had applied to graduate programmes without telling anyone. And, somehow, he knew she'd been accepted before Steve did.
"You opened my post."
They were sitting on the roof of the Rogers building. The July heat had made the apartment unbearable, so Charlie had escaped upward with her books sometime after ten. Bucky had appeared twenty minutes later carrying two bottles of soda and no explanation for how he’d known where she was.
Bucky looked offended.
"I would never."
"You absolutely would."
"Steve opened it."
"Steve wouldn't."
"You're right.” Bucky took a drink. “I opened it."
Charlie hit him with the letter.
He caught it against his chest, laughing
“You are unbelievable.”
"Columbia."
"It's not decided."
"It's got their name at the top and says congratulations."
"Thank you, James, I can read."
"Apparently pretty well."
She glared at him/ Bucky grinned back. Then looked at the letter again. And his expression changed. It was subtle, most people probably wouldn’t have noticed.
Charlie did.
The teasing slipped away.
His eyes moved across the page once more, slower this time. When he looked at her again, there was something in his expression Charlie found much harder to deal with than the flirting.
Pride.
"Doctor Rogers."
Charlie looked away.
"Not yet."
"Will be."
"Buck"
"I'm serious."
“I know.”
That was the problem.
Below them, Brooklyn murmured in the summer darkness. Somewhere somebody had a radio playing through the window. Charlie could hear laughter from the street and the distant rumble of a train.
She drew her knees toward her chest.
"It'll take years."
"So?"
"It’ll cost money."
"You'll figure it out."
“Bucky.”
“What?”
She gestured helplessly at the letter.
“Its not that simple.”
“Why?”
Charlie gave him a look. Bucky sighed.
“Okay. Stupid question.”
“Remarkably.”
“But you got in.”
“That isn’t the same as being able to go.” The words came out more sharply than she’d intended. Bucky didn’t react. He rarely did when Charlie snapped at him. Another irritating quality.
She looked back toward the skyline.
There were things she hadn’t put into the application. That Steve’s medical bills still appeared with depressing regularity. That Charlie had worked throughout most her degree.
That she’d learned which professors would tolerate a woman asking questions and which ones would spend an entire lecture pretending her raised hand didn't exist.
That she'd had one tell her, kindly and with genuine concern, that she ought to consider whether this much education would make finding a husband difficult.
Charlie had informed him that any man intimidated by a woman understanding differential equations was unlikely to survive marriage to her anyway. She hadn't been invited back to his office.
It wasn't that she wasn't excited.
She was.
God, she was.
She wanted it so badly it frightened her.
She wanted laboratories and questions nobody had answered yet. She wanted to understand why damaged nerves sometimes recovered and sometimes didn't. Why electricity could make a dead frog's leg move and a living man's heart stop. She wanted to spend her life pulling things apart until the universe surrendered its secrets out of sheer irritation.
But wanting things had never made them easy.
She still had Steve. And bills. And work.
A world that seemed faintly offended by the idea that Charlotte Rogers might have ambitions extending beyond marriage.
Bucky nudged her knee with his.
“Hey.”
"What?"
"You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"Thinking yourself out of something you want."
Charlie frowned.
"I don't do that."
"You do exactly that."
"I make rational assessments."
"You make lists until you're miserable."
"Lists are useful."
"Lists are the enemy of joy."
"That may be the stupidest thing you've ever said."
“I ate a worm once.”
“Exactly.”
Bucky smiled. Then his expression softened.
“Charlie. You got into Columbia.”
“I’m aware.”
"Women don't get handed chances like this."
Her eyes narrowed.
"Careful."
"I'm agreeing with you."
"Poorly."
"What I'm saying is, if they're willing to let you through the door, you oughta go through it and make every bastard in there regret ever thinking you shouldn't."
Charlie stared at him.
Bucky shrugged.
"For women."
A laugh escaped her.
"For women?"
"Yeah."
"All of them?"
"Every woman in America."
"That's a lot of responsibility."
"You're tough. You can handle it."
Charlie shook her head.
"Your understanding of institutional sexism is breathtaking."
"Don't know what that means."
"I know."
"But I know you're smarter than every jackass you've ever had teaching you."
"Bucky."
"What?"
"You're laying it on thick."
He leaned back on his hands.
"Trying to get kissed."
Charlie turned to look at him.
He was smiling again. Of course he was.
She shoved his shoulder.
Bucky laughed.
"Nearly worked."
"Not remotely." Charlie retorted.
"Liar."
She looked away quickly enough that he couldn't see her smile. Unfortunately, Bucky Barnes had always been annoyingly observant.
"Dottie."
"Don't."
"You're blushing."
“It’s warm”
“It’s midnight.”
“It’s July.”
“You’re blushing in July.”
Charlie turned toward him.
"I will push you off this roof."
Bucky looked over the edge. Then back at her.
“Long way down.”
"I'll write a very moving obituary."
"What'll it say?"
She considered.
"James Buchanan Barnes. Twenty-three. Handsome, irritating, tragically unable to mind his own business."
"Handsome?"
Charlie realised her mistake.
Bucky’s entire face lit up.
“Oh, shut up.”
"You think I'm handsome."
"I think you're about to experience gravity."
"Doctor Rogers thinks I'm handsome."
"I'm not a doctor."
"Yet."
Something about the way he said it made her stop.
No teasing.
Again.
Just certainty.
Bucky looked at her like there had never been a question in his mind that she'd become exactly what she wanted to be.
Charlie swallowed.
"You're an idiot."
"Yeah."
His shoulder settled against hers. This time Charlie didn't push him away. For a while, they sat without speaking.
And because she was twenty-three, and Bucky was warm beside her, and Columbia's acceptance letter was folded between them, Charlie allowed herself the dangerous luxury of believing that perhaps her life was about to begin.
She had no way of knowing that history was already coming for all three of them.