Chapter Text
Port Authority stank like dead fish, piss, and diesel exhaust. The blast furnace of summer gave everywhere below 59th the same stink of rot. Hell, everywhere above, below, beside, over, under... Nothing and no one was safe from the stench of New York City in July.
Right in the middle of that simmering heat was where Bucky saw him first.
He was hanging off the back of a guy who had arms like a gorilla, trying to throttle him within an inch of his life. Little blond guy, half the size of him, but that didn’t mean it was an unfair fight. He had him in a headlock and was throwing every ounce of his weight into making the big guy suffer.
It was ludicrous and hysterical and, Bucky had to admit, pretty damn impressive. A David vs. Goliath bare knuckle fight might've looked like long odds, but Bucky would've laid down a fifty on that bet. Nothing was better than an underdog story, especially not one as ferocious as this kid.
“What did you say?” he was yelling. “What’d you call her?”
Gorilla Guy’s face was red as a lobster. “ He ain’t no her .”
The kid responded by jamming his feet into Gorilla’s lower back and pulling like he was going to pop his head off his neck. There was easily 100 pounds difference between them, but skin and bones and justice were winning.
“Yeah, kid,” Bucky cheered. “Get him good!”
Maybe Bucky was imagining it, but it sure seemed like Little Guy’s grip tightened and his eyes brightened.
“ She’s whoever she says--”
Gorilla’s red face turned purple. He scrabbled at the arm around his neck. It didn’t loosen. His eyes bugged. He stumbled backward, panicked for air, crashing against the tiled wall and smashing Feisty (but Fragile) to shit.
Bucky’s grin evaporated.
Hero Kid crumpled like paper. He lost his grip when the wind was knocked out of him.
“Christ!” Bucky hollered.
Worry flooded him for a split second. Then it transformed into a sudden flare of anger. The other guy was winding up to kick his steel-toe boots right through--
“Hey, shithead! You wanna go?” Bucky balled up his fists. He was ready to go one-on-one with King Kong just to have this stranger’s back.
But Bucky’s outrage was drowned out by a stampede of clacking high heels. No fewer than five handbags beat that guy down to the ground until the PA cops came running across the terminal, whistles blowing.
Drag queens, man. Don’t cross ‘em.
Bucky rushed over and crouched down on the tile. “Hey, hero.”
He seemed suddenly frail, like he’d lost the armor he’d been wearing a second ago. Bucky’s anger faded and worry took its place again.
“The cops are coming. Gotta get you out of here. Can you walk?”
He was wheezing, but he nodded, eyes alert, and clung to Bucky’s shoulder with a strong grip. Bucky scooped him up off the floor.
Tweet! Tweet! Cops thundered toward the scene.
He and the kid would never make it out in time. He ducked them behind a pillar. Hero kid had a grip on the front of Bucky’s shirt and another on Bucky’s sleeve. Bucky held him steady at the waist.
Behind them, a few more swats and few more pointy-toed jabs. Spitting and swearing, the girls left Gorilla laid out in his own juices.
One of them -- auburn wig and thigh high vinyl -- leaned in quick to give Hero’s blond hair a smooch. “Thanks, Stevie. Gotta run, doll! Love you!” She looked Bucky hard in the eye and lowered her voice, “If you hurt Steve, I’ll find you and wedge my size 11 up your ass.”
Steve.
Bucky nodded sharply and pulled Steve further into the low light behind the pillar. He guarded him with his body like a hook-up in the shadows. Donut-heavy guts jiggled past them, yelling for the queens to stop running. Like they would. They knew what’s what.
Steve grunted against Bucky’s chest.
“How bad is it?” Bucky whispered, giving Steve a quick once-over in the cramped space.
He was cradling his side like a rib was busted. His lower lip was full and swollen on one side. His eyes were scrunched shut.
“Shit, you’re bleeding.”
Blood was oozing from a cut over his eyebrow. Some had dripped down onto his t-shirt. Pratt Institute, it said, School of Art and Design. Older than he looked maybe.
Bucky leaned out. Gorilla Guy looked worse off than Steve did. He was rolling and groaning feebly on the dirty floor.
“You did a number on that guy.”
“He had it comin’,” Steve answered, but his voice was tight and thin like he couldn’t get enough air.
“Coast is clear,” Bucky said. “Let’s go.”
“I’m fine,” Steve said, wobbling when Bucky gave him space to move. “You go.”
“You’re not fine, and I'm not leaving you here.”
“I am fine,” Steve protested, leveling Bucky with a look like he was going to fight him now.
“If you want to pick a fight, do it another day. That’ll be fine by me. Have at it, buddy. But right now we’re getting out of here, and you,” Bucky jabbed a finger at him, “are getting patched up. Stop arguing.”
Steve wheezed out a frustrated breath. “Fine.”
Bucky hauled him out to the cab stand. He whistled loudly and a hat-covered head popped up from one of the cars.
“Buck, hey… What the hell? Pickin’ up strays?” Uncle Timmy came jogging over and helped prop Steve up. His moustache turned down at the corners when he looked Steve over with concern.
“I’m fine,” Steve argued again, seeing the expression on Timmy’s face and returning it with a defiant look. “I’m no stray.”
“What’s your name, kid?” Timmy asked.
“Steve,” rattling breath , “Rogers.”
“Well, Steve Rogers, I’m Timothy Dugan--”
Another moustachioed face nosed into their little crowd and interjected, “Call ‘im Dum Dum,” in a French accent. “Everyone call zim zat. Merde , what you get yourself into, kid?”
“Butt out, Jacques. Go get my first aid kit out of the glovebox.”
Before Jacques got more than a step away, Steve collapsed against Bucky’s side, eyelids fluttering closed.
“Damn it! We gotta take him for help,” Bucky pleaded, the worry back ten times worse.
“Get in the cab,” Timmy said. “We’ll get him to Presbyterian.”
“No,” gasped Steve, apparently not actually passed out. Christ, he was a fighter. “Too 'spensive. Be fine.”
“You’re not fine,” Bucky and Dum Dum said in unison.
“Seen worse,” Steve said before slumping over again, breathing labored.
Considering what he got himself into back there, Bucky believed it.
“Let’s get him up to Jim. See what he can do.”
((☆))
Timmy laid on the horn every intersection and then some. Sixty-something blocks of it uptown.
Steve was laying across the back seat, head in Bucky’s lap. His brow was wrinkled in pain. Bucky had the urge to smooth the lines with his thumb, but he resisted. They didn't know each other like that. Steve’d probably grab his hand and crank on it ‘til the bones snapped. The thought made Bucky smile a little.
“That was somethin’ back there,” Bucky said softly, not even meaning to say it out loud.
“Well, what was I supposed to do?” Steve rasped, face reddening with renewed righteousness. “I’m not gonna stand there,” wheeze , “and watch some idiot throw slurs around like weapons.”
Bucky grinned again and shook his head fondly. This guy.
“I suppose ,” Bucky said, drawing out the word to try to take Steve’s blood pressure down a few notches, “you were supposed to do exactly what you did.” He squeezed Steve’s shoulder, hoping it wasn’t one of the places that was hurt.
Steve cringed a little when Timmy swerved around a bus and sped through a yellow. Then he looked up at Bucky with guarded suspicion.
“Why’re you helping me? You don’t even know me.”
Bucky shrugged. “Name’s Bucky Barnes. You’re Steve Rogers. There, now we know each other.”
Steve pressed his lips together and scowled. He was hurting too much to respond. His breathing sounded worse. Worry clenched in Bucky's chest.
“We’ll get you patched up--”
“We’re here,” Timmy said from the front seat when the cab lurched to a stop. He was jumping out before the car was done moving. He lifted Steve out and put him upright on the curb.
“Jim’s place?” Steve asked weakly. “‘S good.” His head lolled to the side and he was out.
“Shit,” Bucky said. He took Steve under the other arm and they hurried him inside the 107th Street Clinic.
Gabe was at the front desk, talking animatedly in Spanish to an elderly woman. She was pushing a towel covered dish of food toward him and he was declining over and over with his broad, warm smile. The sudden motion of them bursting through the door stopped their friendly debate in its tracks.
“Dios mio!” the old woman gasped, seeing Steve bloody and hanging there between Bucky and Timmy.
Gabe’s face fell. “Jim!” he called toward the back of the clinic. “Need you up front! Dum Dum’s got Steve.”
“You guys know him?” Bucky asked, startled.
Jim hurried through a swinging door and promptly lifted Steve’s eyelids. He shone a penlight into them. “He volunteers here,” he said, checking the pulse in Steve’s neck.
“Of course he does,” Bucky said. This kid -- a buck twenty after a hearty meal, and half of that the weight of his heart of gold -- of course he’d volunteer at the free clinic in Spanish Harlem, of course he would.
“Bring him in back,” Jim ordered. “Steve? Steve, can you hear me? What did you get yourself into this time?”
“Defending the oppressed at Port Authority,” Bucky told him when Steve, worryingly, didn’t respond.
“Sounds about right,” Jim said like it was definitely not the first time.