Chapter Text
When he was young, Bucky Barnes never thought to question why his mother and father had matching scars on the outside of their right thumbs. Or why it was a family scandal that his uncle had a scar through his left eyebrow, but his wife did not. When you’re a child, you don’t think to ask why teenagers were glancing at their partner’s faces, looking for any hint of a mark that matched their own. It was just something that happened, and by the time he was five Bucky understood that when his older cousins would talk about it in his ma’s small apartment, Winifred Barnes would get pink in the face and tell them they were far too young for such matters. He understood that the subject was off-limits.
So he never asked, and he never even considered asking her, at four years old, why they panicked when Rebecca was born with a small scar on her palm. It was just how things were, and it wasn’t something he should think about.
That started to change when Bucky was seven. He’d never thought too much about talk of how partners would get marked like each other, just wrinkling his nose when the adults would talk about it before scampering back outside to play. Maybe he’d go by the complex across the street and see if Stevie was free, or if his ma thought that his new friend was too tired to go outside.
They’d met the year prior, Bucky’s knuckles splitting on the teeth of one of the three kids who’d been beating up a then-six year old Steve Rogers, for no other reason than he was smaller than they were. After dragging the scrawny blond kid to his home to get him patched up, the rest was pretty much history. They were always at each other’s sides if they could be, and no one thought to question if it was strange or not. After all, they were just friends. And Bucky was Steve’s first friend, which carried a whole new weight of importance to both boys.
Looking back, it would be that cold morning in early March of 1921 that marked everything between them as ‘different’. Weeks still before his eighth birthday, and months before Steve’s seventh. Waking up, nothing really seemed any different than it had before; it was cold, and he tried to remain burrowed under the small pile of blankets for as long as possible. Nothing hurt.
But when he finally roused, grumpily pulling off his sleep clothes, he paused, staring down at himself. Even at his age, he knew it wasn’t right. It wasn’t normal. But there it was, right down the center of his chest, almost perfectly straight down. A long, gnarled scar that he had no recollection of earning himself. Not that Bucky had any of his own to begin with, nor did he ever find strange ones that he didn’t remember, like the one Becca sported across her knuckles that they all assumed was from the cat.
He couldn’t look away, eyes painfully wide as he stared down at the skin that had changed so much in his sleep. It terrified him. What was he supposed to tell his ma? His heart hammered in his chest, immobile for what felt like a minor eternity, when it was doubtful five minutes had passed before his disgruntled mother came into his room, already starting to lecture him.
“James, I know you don’t want to go to school, but it’s important. You have to be more—“ She froze the second Bucky looked up at her. Everything about her looked put together, from her done up hair to the well-pressed dress. Well, everything except the sudden pallor of her skin and the wide-eyed fear that overtook her face.
His skin burned with shame, shoulders hunching in as he tried to hide the pink, puckered skin that ran down his chest. Like he could forget all about it just by shielding it from view. “It doesn’t hurt,” he murmured, bright grey eyes dropping to the worn wooden floor. “It doesn’t hurt, ma. It’s ok.”
Maybe she had nodded. Or maybe not, but Bucky didn’t look up to check. He didn’t even bring his eyes up to the floor until the door closed heavily after hearing his ma’s choked off breathing. It was hard, but Bucky forced the rest of the day to proceed as normal. He smiled at his ma and promised to be good before going off to school, and worried when he didn’t see Steve on the playground. Which meant he wasn’t feeling well again and that he’d have to go check on him.
He didn’t go straight home after school, not sure if his ma was still upset with him after this morning. Instead, he went over to the Rogers’ apartment across the street, knocking on the door and hoping Mrs. Rogers was home, and not working. Thankfully, the door opened to reveal a worn-down looking Sarah Rogers, wispy blond hair in disarray around her soft face that broke into a smile when she saw Bucky. “I was wondering if you’d be showing up today,” she said, opening the door wider to allow the boy inside. “Stevie’s resting right now, but you can come in and sit with him if you’d like.”
Bucky frowned, toeing off his shoes in the doorway. “Is he sick?” he asked, gently setting his backpack down and shrugging out of his coat.
Her blue eyes tightened just a bit, and she shook her head. “No, honey. He just had to go to the doctor to get his heart fixed, that’s all. He’s simply tired, all right? There’s nothing to worry about.”
His heart. Right, Stevie had a hole in his heart. How could he forget that? Bucky’s frown deepened, glancing down at his own chest for what felt like the hundredth time today. Maybe she could tell him what happened to him. After all, she was a nurse. She could tell him that it was all ok.
“Mrs. Rogers?” he asked hesitantly, shoulders once again curling in to protect himself. “What’s it mean when people get scars randomly? I mean, I got one on my chest, and I dunno how, but it doesn’t hurt…”
Unlike his own ma, Mrs. Rogers didn’t wince at the mention. Barely even reacted to it, that he could see and it made him relax enough to uncurl from himself. She wasn’t going to be mad at him. “You’re still a bit young to understand,” she said slowly, leaning down to brush a few locks of dark hair off his forehead. “But it just means someone who will be very important to you was hurt. It’s just your body letting you know that something happened.”
Bucky frowned, brows pulling together. Someone important to him. It didn’t really explain too much to him; barely more than what he’d already heard from his own extensive family.
She sighed, straightening up and tugging at the hem of her skirt. “Your ma or I will explain more when you’re older, all right?”
And there was that excuse again. Bucky huffed, hating how that was always the answer he got whenever he wanted to know anything. ‘When he was older’ they’d explain. He was getting real tired of hearing that. Still, he smiled at her, nodding before scuttling off towards Steve’s room once he got her permission once again.
Steve was sleeping, like he expected. Soft, blond hair messy against the hard pillows, thin pale hands curled up atop the blankets. He looked calm, peaceful in a way he didn’t look when he was awake, despite the way his breath rattled in his chest like it always did. Sick or not, Steve was always moving, running about as fast as his legs and lungs would let him, yelling at anyone who tried to talk down to him or Bucky. Never knew how to just leave it be, and maybe Bucky wouldn't have it any other way.
He decidedly didn’t like it, but huffed as he threw himself into the beat up chair in the corner of Steve’s room, just waiting for him to wake up.