Steve fic based around this button? i(.)ebayimg(.)com/images/g/MDkAAOSwt0FZCocL/s-l500(.)jpg
Steve didn’t think something
as small and inconsequential would have lasted.
But there it was in a box of effects that Becca had given him (there was
a shirt and a scrap of paper Steve had drawn the skyline on for Bucky and some
letters with Bucky’s deliberate, heavy handwriting).
I gave my share
inside a faded red heart and the year – 1928.
He’d been ten, at the
time, breathing reedy and limbs thin. He
was picking himself up from a scrap, (Bucky would be back for Steve once he’d
properly run the other boys off), when he saw it, shiny and entirely not trash behind the barrel.
Fifty cents. A whole fifty cents and Steve couldn’t
believe it. He and Bucky could split
something at the diner, maybe.
He thought of what his Ma
had said about fortune and some people not having any, had thought of the fight he was in – the little girl was gone
but her shoes still had holes in them bigger than Steve’s.
When Bucky returned, Steve
had pocketed the quarters and was dusting himself off.
“Your Ma is gonna kill
me. Lookit you.”
“We gotta make a stop on
the way, Buck.”
Bucky glared and Steve
returned it, neither having the energy for anything more.
Bucky sighed. “Fine.”
Steve marched them
straight to the Red Cross and donated the fifty cents he’d found, and the woman
at the desk – kind-faced and eyes full of something Steve couldn’t describe –
gave him a pin. I gave my share, it said.
He pinned it on his shirt
and his Ma – when he stepped through the door at home she didn’t mention his
bruises or the bleeding, but she saw his pin and smiled so wide, Steve thought
her cheeks might ache.
Steve left the pin in the
box, needing to find a place that would be safe but visible for him to keep
it. It made him think of his Ma and
Bucky and Erskine; on those days he questioned himself and his purpose, it
helped him to think of his ten-year-old self, reassure himself that boy, that
boy who wanted to give, was still in