It was a normal day. A lovely day in Brooklyn, New York. The sun was shining, a slight breeze was blowing, and the air was filled with the sounds a kids yelling and cars honking. Lovely noises. Very good for thinking.

I was walking down the road, humming a tune, and wondering what I should draw next, when I saw two guys, about a block in front of me, just inside an alley, picking on this young dame.

She was obviously uncomfortable, and kept glancing around for some sort of help. The guys barred her path, and both looked a little too eager for my taste. One of them tried to grab her arm, but she slapped his hand away. I could hear them raise their voices, and they started to shove her around. She cried out for help, but she wasn't very loud.

Now, I like people. But I don't like bullies. And I hate it when they mistreat women.

Needless to say, when I reached them, I yelled at them. Bucky would've smacked me, but I couldn't just walk away.

"Leave off!" I demanded. "Get away from her! Go to a bar or somethin'."

All three, including the dame, just looked at me. One guy laughed and pointed at me.

"Stay out of it, shortstop," he said.

When I didn't move, he glared me. "What do you plan on doin' anyway?"

"I'll kick ya' if ya' don't leave her alone," I said.

"Probably wouldn't hurt that bad," the other guy joked. The dame tried to make a dash for it, but he grabbed her arm. He must've grabbed it hard, because she let out a small shriek.

That did it for me.

I kicked him in the crotch.

He just squeaked and fell over, because even my puny little legs could hurt. The dame broke away and fled, and the other guy tried to run after her, but I rammed into him, smacking him into the brick wall. I could hear the almost hollow thwack! as his head met solid concrete. He staggered a few paces and shook his head as I quickly backed away. I readied myself for a beating. I knew I had it coming. I put my hands up in a fighting stance and glared my opponent down. The guy growled at me while his buddy moaned on the ground. Then he turned and raised his fist, which was at least twice as big as mine, and a heck of a lot thicker.

"Ya' asked for it, squirt."

And he slugged me right in the face. I fell to the ground with a grunt, and mentally sighed as he grabbed my shoulder and lifted me up.

How did I always find myself in these situations?

The next ten minutes were fuzzy and filled with flashes, so I haven't really anything to tell after this point. Bucky will carry this story on.

-•-•-•-

Ah, this story. What a disaster that day was. I had just finished getting a haircut, and was going downtown Steve's place, so we could head to the docks to swim. It was kind of hot out, and a dip in the bay would've felt great. I'm sure Steve will disagree and say that no, it wasn't at all hot, but I was always kind of a winter person, you know? Anyway, back to Brooklyn.

I was walking along, minding my own business, when I heard some shouting and thuds. Maybe a fight. I shrugged. Fights were normal. It was Brooklyn. Stuff happens. I kept walking.

I whistled a tune, maybe doing a little high stepping, you know. Feeling great, I couldn't wait to show Steve my haircut (he wouldn't care, but whatever. Life updates are important), and it struck me that maybe we could go for ice cream, too, assuming I had enough money on me.

I hadn't a care in world.

But of course, dang Steven can't stay out of a fight for longer than six seconds. I always end up cleaning up the little pieces of him left on the walls. I should've known that the quiet wouldn't last that long.

I passed by an alley, singing some jazz or something. Then I backpedaled like an out-of-control cyclist.

Some mean brute had Steve on his knees, holding his arms behind him as another cruel idiot kicked him in the stomach, head, and chest. He looked completely limp, and his head hung down like a wilted flower.

Okay, I knew Steve had probably brought it on himself. The poor kid was born with an irrevocable sense of right and wrong, and when he saw people crossing moral border lines into places that would probably land them in the special hell for complete jerks, he would rush them, like he thought he could stop them or something. And more often than not, he did stop them; he just also ended up bedridden for a week in return for his valiant deeds. I on the other hand, I was born with a sense of… Protective assassin?

I see a threat; I neutralize it.

So when I saw those two buffoons threatening Steve's life and bodily health, I wasted no time in launching myself at them.

"HEY!" I shouted. The two guys turned, both a bit bigger than me, and before they could react too much, I kicked out at the one restraining Steve, hitting him right in the side of the head. He dropped like a rock, and I jumped the second guy, crashing us into the ground with me on top. I grabbed him around the throat, put a knee on each of his arms, and looked him right in the eye.

"When I let ya' up, you have exactly two seconds to get outta my sight, or I swear to you: (I then took great care to annunciate every word,) I just might kill you."

His eyes bugged, and his face turned purple.

"GOT IT?" I said, louder.

He squeaked. I assumed that meant yes.

"Good," I said. I removed myself, seething, and waited for him to get to his feet. He rose unsteadily, and eventually stood, wavering.

I looked at him and pointed to the exit of the alley. "Two seconds."

He looked confused, assumed an expression of realization, and started to turn away and run.

Too late, pal.

I swept his legs out from under him and socked him in the head as he fell. He went still.

Threat neutralized.

I turned quickly to Steve, who was laying face first on the ground, not moving.

Dang it, Steve.

I knelt next to him and rolled him over. I poked him in the arm.

"Ya' up, Stevie-boy?"

No answer. I poked him harder.

"Steve. Wake up, punk."

He didn't move. I sighed, picked him up, and slung him over my shoulders. I heard a groan from the guy I kicked in the head, and I hightailed it out of there.

About a mile away, I stopped running and started walking. Steve was still out like a light, darn him, but I could feel his heartbeat on my shoulder, so at least I wasn't carrying this weight for nothing.

(I know you were only seventy-five pounds or something. I didn't have a metal arm, then, and we were like, what? Seventeen and twelve?)

(I was fifteen, Bucky.)

(Ya' weighed as much as I did when I was twelve. Therefore, you were twelve.)

(Did I ever age in your eyes?)

(Heck, yeah. When ya' got me out of that HYDRA base I thought we had both died and gone to the place were skinny children get steroids.)

(What-?)

(Shush, Steve, I have a story to tell.)

As I was saying, I walked until I got to the docks, which were closer than Steve's house. I laid him down on the edge of the wooden dock and looked him over. His nose was bleeding, but not broken, thankfully. He had a black eye, which kind of made him look like a disfigured fruit. He was covered with dozens of little cuts and bruises, and I could only imagine how his chest looked. I unbuttoned his shirt, which was covered in black shoe-prints and pieces of gravel. Underneath was not pretty. His bony chest and stomach looked like the time I spilled hot blueberry sauce on my feet: purple, bright pink, and swollen.

I winced and felt for broken bones. I decided he had two broken ribs, and maybe a cracked one. Aside from that and everything else, he was fine. I sighed again. Why did he have to be so reckless? I grinned and chucked a piece of dried seaweed at him. He didn't respond.

I sat next to him for a while, just watching the ships go about their daily routines. After about five minutes, I got bored. I started stacking rocks on his forehead. When I ran out of rocks, I draped seaweed over his eyes. Finally, I took off my shirt and dived into the bay. I gulped a huge amount of water into my mouth, swam back to the dock, and climbed ashore. I then sat next to Steve's head and spewed the frigid water all over him.

He made a retarded noise and waved his arms, slapping me in the face.

I frowned at him and rubbed my cheek.

"You're welcome," I snarked loudly.

-•-•-•-

Oh, shut up, Buck. I didn't hit you that hard.

After waking up to ice water and spit, I coughed violently. I then felt the extent of my beating in my gut, and I doubled over, groaning and holding my stomach. Bucky knelt next to me and looked at me.

"Why do ya' always hafta go and do that?" he asked.

I moaned again.

"I mean, really, Steve. You're gonna get yourself killed one day."

"Shut up, Bucky."

"Pft, okay. Lemme know when you wanna thank me for savin' ya'."

"Get out."

"I'm goin'! I'm goin'!"

I sat up slowly, rubbing my face and arms. I could feel sharp pangs in my chest, but they weren't as bad as my shoulder. My right arm screamed at me, and if I tried to move it, my shoulder revolted and started a war with my nervous system. The joint had popped out of socket. I tried to snap it back in, but I couldn't.

"Bucky!" I called.

"YEA-A-A-A?"

I rolled my eyes. "Can you give me hand?"

"YEA."

I waited for him to come over. Two minutes later; still no Bucky.

"BUCKY!" I shouted hoarsely. "Can you please-!"

"May I come over there?"

"ARE YOU SERIOUS?!"

"REMEMBER MS. GREENSTEIN WITH HONOR, STEVE."

"MY SHOULDER IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN HER GRAMMAR LESSONS!"

"NOT TO ME. SHE WAS MY SOULMATE!"

"SHE WAS LIKE, SIXTY!"

"AGE DOESN'T MATTER!"

"WHAT? BUCK-!" I took a deep breath. "MAY YOU PLEASE, GET YOUR SORRY BEHIND OVER HERE, AND HELP ME!?"

Bucky trotted up with a completely stoic face. "Sure. Why didn't ya' just ask?"

"Bucky-," I sputtered. I may have used a swear word or two.

(You did, Steve. I remember very well. Both were aimed at me.)

(Shut up, you.)

"Whadaya need?"

"My shoulder's bent outta its socket. I need it back in."

"Can do," said Bucky, and he grabbed my hand, placed a foot on my collarbone, and yanked out, up, and backwards all at once. I screeched like a cat whose tail had just been stepped on, and Bucky let go.

"Better?" he asked.

"I hate you."

But my arm did feel better. Bucky helped me to my feet, led me to the edge of the dock, and dropped me in the water to clean up. Then he jumped on me, nearly drowned me, saved me, and hauled me back out of the water. He threw an arm around my shoulder to help me stay upright and smiled at me. I glared at him, but I wasn't really mad.

"You're a jerk," I huffed.

"Punk," he replied. And we walked home, with me limping alongside him.

My mother was not a happy person when we got home.

(I think that's where we leave off, Steve.)

(Yeah. Let's not go there.)

-•–•—•–•-

A/N: Because we all need some Happy!Bucky and Happy!Steve in Brooklyn. ^_^