Sucker Punch

‘I hate those guys,’ Steve says, voice still thready and he coughs against the chilly wind and the cigarette smoke and his own traitorous lungs.

Bucky’s eyes open, stare at a point somewhere above Steve’s head. He flicks ash off the end of the cigarette, takes another drag. Ember-red glowing against the gloom. His mouth flat and tight, a sharpness in his eyes that turns them silvery grey.  ‘We coulda taken them,’ Steve insists.  ‘Sure.’  Bucky tosses the butt, pushes himself away from the wall and he’s walking again, fast, fisted hands buried deep in the pockets of his jacket. His best suit. Dark blue with a faint stripe. He’d saved for a year to get that suit. Steve trots after him, feeling sweat bead along his upper lip and clamminess against the back of his neck. Stomp, stomp, stomp, Bucky’s feet landing hard on the sidewalk, shoulders braced, head down.