Chapter Text
The story of how you met James Buchanan Barnes is something of fairytale. You think about it often, especially now as you watch Bucky lean lackadaisically in Steve’s direction, aiming to tug at the blond hair which Steve has let grow just a bit too long between barber’s visits.
It was a wonder he was still blonde after all these years; you remembered Bucky as a boy, visiting Steve at St. Giles and thinking they were brothers—a mop of golden curls atop Bucky’s head which would darken to a rich brown by the time the boys were thirteen.
They were quite the sight back then; Steve, thin as onion skin and nearly four inches shorter than Bucky, who was pudgy, but strong enough to haul Steve out of bed when the nuns or nurses came by to alert the ward that it was time for regimented exercise.
You envied the two of them at times, particularly on hard days when your arms felt like lead and pulling yourself from your cot seemed Herculean. The nurses were usually quick to your rescue, with two supporting hands under each armpit to get you to your feet.
Despite the needed assistance, you were a stubborn seven year old, and huffed and puffed well into the stretching before the burn of your muscles pushed any sort of childhood pride away.
On the good days, most of the children in the ward could complete their light stretching and walks, or swimming in the summer time when the nuns opened the outdoor baths, without much complaint, but the day you formally met Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes was not one of those days.
You had been able to pull yourself to your feet without much issue, but your hamstrings felt seized and overused, though you’d been in bed nearly the whole day before. You sniffed angrily, feeling tears well up at the state of yourself; bitter that being sick had stopped you from the simple act of standing still.
You thought of your siblings.
Amelia, who was two years older, had visited last week to tell you she was teaching herself double dutch with the aid of your brothers. Bill was the oldest of the lot, and had taught you how to ride a bike before you’d gotten sick. You weren’t quite sure you’d remember how to do it now, with your legs and arms in such a sorry state. Tommy and Sam, the sprouts that they were, were each four respectively and weren’t allowed to visit the ward out of fear they might catch. You missed them.
“How’re you feeling today?” Nurse Cook kneeled down, bringing herself eye level with you in the way your mother did at home.
“Fine,” you insisted, though you knew your eyes were red and your knuckles a stark white as they gripped onto the edge of the bed frame for support.
“Are you sure? I don’t want you hurting yourself when we go out today, missy,” Nurse Cook was kind, but firm when she spoke. She brought her thumb to your cheek to brush a stray tear away.
Your eyes wandered, desperate to stare at anything that would make you forget the way she looked at you—the way most of the nurses looked at the children in the polio ward— in a mix of sympathy and pity.
Over her shoulder, you spotted a familiar sight. The privacy curtains, which the nuns pulled shut in the evenings to separate the room by gender, were drawn just enough so that you could see Bucky Barnes, his arm slung securely around Steve’s waist.
You liked Steve Rogers, he was one of the nicer, older boys. You chalked this up to the fact that he looked to be about seven, though he was nearly nine and a half.
Steve was one the sicklier patients at St. Giles; he spent nearly all his time in bed or in leg braces. From what you had heard though, Steve’s stature and ailment did little to stop him from getting into bouts of mischief.
The nuns tried to have Bucky banned from the ward after his last visit ended with he and Steve halfway to Coney Island.
You knew this because you had heard Steve telling the tale to Jimmy Nettles, the five year old in the bed across from his own, before lights out last week. Jimmy, whose left leg had been stunted by polio, had been at St. Giles for nearly two years now and remembered very little of the bustle of the world outside.
You lay in bed, your eyes screwed shut tightly so you wouldn’t miss a single detail of how Bucky had pinched a wheelchair from the reception room while the secretary was on her lunch break, hidden it in the bushes out front, and pushed Steve with all the speed and strength he could muster off the hospital grounds during the exercise period.
There was a joy in the way Steve described his own howling laughter at the sight of two red-faced nuns and four policemen just as they passed Flatbush Ave. You imagined it with delight.
Steve was looking at you now, you realized as the ache in your legs became too much and you allowed yourself to slump back down onto the cot. There was a gleam of concern in his eyes.
“Okay?” he mouthed.
Bucky turned to face you as well, maneuvering his grip on Steve so he wouldn’t drop the boy. You sniffed and nodded. Steve shot a small smile your way as Bucky leaned into his ear to whisper something you couldn’t begin to guess at.
Nurse Cook turned to see what had caught your attention and grinned.
“You boys doing alright?” she called out with an air of fond exasperation. Bucky grinned as Steve sent a thumbs up.
“Yeah, we was just discussing how we need someone to play jacks with today. Stevie here is convinced that I’m cheating every time I win fair and square!” Bucky said, procuring a jack from his pocket with the ease of a magician.
Nurse Cook must have seen the way your eyes lit up at the prospect of joining the boys because she laughed to herself and nudged your own braces and crutches towards you.
“Go on, hun. I’m sure you could play them under the table.”
A surge of confidence bubbled within, squashing any complaints you had as you buckled the braces around your knees and calves.
Nurse Cook handed you your crutches and led to towards where Bucky and Steve were waiting.
“No funny business, you two,” she said, waving a finger between Bucky and Steve, “I don’t want to see your faces plastered in the broadsheets tomorrow!” And with that, she was gone.
Once the ward was empty, Bucky turned to you and grinned a toothy and crooked smile. “I’m James,” he said, “but everyone calls me Bucky. This here is Steve, though I’m sure you already knew that.”
Steve swatted at Bucky, though the taller boy only shrugged.
“You’re famous now, Stevie! The runaway crip! Jimmy Nettles’ s’been staring at the two of us since I got here this morning.”
Steve bristled at word and you were quick to jump in yourself with an indignant air.
“He’s not a crip, James,” you said. “No one’s a crip. We’ve got crummy arms and legs and some of us don’t breathe too well on our own, but that doesn’t give you any right to say anything mean about it and it won’t stop me from socking you in the jaw if you have anything else to say!”
Bucky suddenly looked very young, chastised in a way parent might their own child. For a moment, he could do nothing but stare at you, slack-jawed.
“You sure know how to make a first impression, Buck,” Steve mumbled under his breath. The statement seemed to shake Bucky out of his own thoughts because he shut his mouth for a moment before cracking another, more impish grin.
“I’ll bet you my whole jacks set that you won’t hit me.”
Suffice to say, the next week, you were something of a legend in the ward for walloping James “Bucky” Barnes so hard he lost he last baby tooth.
He came to you on Tuesday with a yellowing bruise just below his jaw and his jacks rattling in an old biscuit tin. You had been dreading the visit, rehearsing exactly how you’d apologize to Bucky with Nurse Cook all week. Frankly, you thought Bucky had gotten what he deserved, but Nurse Cook insisted that it wasn’t very ladylike of you to punch anyone.
When he got to your bedside, you greeted him with a quiet ‘Hey James,’ but the boy didn’t respond. Instead, Bucky jerked his hand out unceremoniously, as if it pained him more to give the toys away than the bruise on his face did. You took the box in your own hands and popped the lid; there was a drawing pasted on the underside. ‘Bucky and Steven, aged 4 years old’ it read, with the name Sarah signed at the bottom. The jacks and a small rubber ball seemed dwarfed by the careful illustration of the boys.
“What’s this?” you asked.
“You won the bet,” he finally said quietly.
“No, I meant the drawing.” You flipped the tin up.
Bucky’s eyes widened for a second, before he snatched the page out of its place and shoved it in the pocket of his reefer. Clearly, the drawing had not been meant for prying eyes.
“Who’s Sarah?” you asked curiously.
“None of your business,” he said, shoving his fists deeper into his pockets. You felt the tension in the air.
“Look, I’m sorry, James—”
“It’s Bucky,” he snapped, “no one calls me James,”
“I’m sorry, Bucky. I shouldn’t have hit you. I didn’t like you calling Steve a crip. Or anyone a crip. And I know he’s your friend and not mine and I have no business—”
“We’re not friends right now,” Bucky said with an air of glum finality that revealed all you needed to know about his grave mood.
“Oh,” you said dumbly, unsure of what else you could say to soothe him.
“Not until I tell you I’m sorry for being rude. Steve won’t talk to me,” he mumbled, “So, uh, sorry.”
“Say it like you mean it, Buck!” You jumped at the sound of Steve yelling from just out of sight; the privacy curtains hadn’t been drawn to their full length, but you didn’t need to see him to know who was hollering from the other side.
Bucky reddened, scuffing his shoes, before taking a deep breath and meeting your eyes with his own.
“I’m sorry,” he mustered, clearer this time and with a twinge of desperation that made your lips twitch imperceptibly.
“Thank you. And here,” you handed the tin back to him with gentle push, “I didn’t want your jacks anyways, Bucky. I wanted a friend.”
His eyes lit up in a way that would become as familiar to you as the sun in the sky.
He tucked the box beneath his arm before offering you his hand.
“C’mon then, kid,” his smile felt genuine this time, no airs or motives behind it, “Let’s see if we can beat Stevie at foursies.”