Logs:The Power of Naming

The Power of Naming
Dramatis Personae Bucky, Steve
In Absentia	03-10-1932 James Barnes gets a nickname.
Location Brooklyn
<NYC> Red Hook - Brooklyn March has come in like a proverbial lion to New York City. A damp, soggy, miserable lion. It's the kind of chill that seems to creep in no matter how many layers one wears. Admittedly, Steve is not wearing that many layers, and just about all of them are full of holes. It probably doesn't help that he's soaked from where James Kelly threw him into one of the man-eating potholes that riddle the streets of Red Hook. As soon as Steve has staggered to his feet, weaving unsteadily, the aforementioned James Kelly shoves him again -- this time toward Kevin O'Toole, who aims a sloppy punch at their target's jaw and catches him in the forehead, instead. Steve reels but does not go down this time. They're all of an age, but he stands a full head shorter than the other two boys. "Jesus, Mary an' Joseph!" Kevin cries out. "His head's like a rock!" "That's real rough, buddy," Steve manages between deep breaths as he struggles to keep his feet. "Hope you didn't hurt your poor little --" James's foot catches him in the stomach and he goes sprawling. "What's the problem, fellas?" James Barnes' voice is unusually lively, considering he just turned the corner to find an exhaustingly familiar sight. His jacket is already off and dropped onto the driest, cleanest part of the street he can find nearby, and he gives the group a friendly smile while rolling up the sleeves of his overshirt. "Two on one's a little uneven. Want help fixing that?" Kevin doesn't seem too put off by the arrival of reinforcements, though. He comes at Steve again with a sloppy one-two punch clearly copied from a prize fight without much practical review. Steve takes the jab squarely in the face but manages to duck beneath the cross, slamming his tiny fist up into the bully's solar plexus...or *trying*, at least. His feeble muscles don't have much carry-through. Luckily for Steve, James has taken up a job slinging boxes on the weekend. That, combined with training from his father (who had been a boxer of his own right, back in Ireland), gives him much better form than Kevin; the one-two jab he aims at the other, (worse) James, is almost pretty. It is doubtful, however, that worse James will feel pretty later for it. The first punch catches him square in the nose, bloodying it and sending his head backwards, which makes his jaw a great target for punch number two. Worse James falls backwards, not unconscious but dazed and cursing in ways that Obviously Superior James chooses to ignore for both of their sakes. Steve can't spare the attention to appreciate his friend's fighting prowess, being busy catching Kevin's knee in his ribs. But as he doubles over he manages to slam his head -- it's unclear whether this is actually intentional -- into his opponent's stomach. Kevin pushes him away, spewing muffled, incoherent profanity. "Fucking nancy," James sputters as he recovers, going to collect Kevin as they both back away. "Gotta get the fucking halfbreed mocky to fight for you." He spits -- there's tinge of blood in the saliva -- as he storms off. Steve, still not entirely steady on his feet, promptly moves to give chase. James snatches at the back of Steve's shirt to keep him in place, and gives him a bit of a shake in the process. Would you stop. He watches the retreating duo with narrowed eyes, making sure they're truly gone, before turning the same expression on Steve to look him over for injuries. "All right, punk?" he asks, brushing mud off of Steve with just a bit more force than necessary. It doesn't do much to improve the soggy state he's in. "You can't even give me a break on my birthday, can you?" "Yeah, I'm fine," Steve replies, submitting to the examination. "Thanks, pal." His face is already swelling in two places, and small cuts and scrapes dot both his filthy hands. "I wasn't gonna, but they --" He grimaces, perhaps at the patting-down and perhaps at the recollection. "They were talking about you," he grumbles evasively. "It wasn't right." "Much as I appreciate it, maybe you should let me deal with people talking about me," James suggests, though his tone and body language heavily reflect how much he good he thinks it will do. Still he smiles and lightly punches Steve in the shoulder, before going to retrieve his jacket. "Come on, if you don't get cleaned up your ma will have my skin." "Well, you weren't here," Steve retorts. "And they call you awful things when you're not around! Every time someone says 'James who' and I say Barnes..." He trails after James, limping slightly and trying not to look it. "We oughta get you a proper nickname. Too bad everyone and his brother around here's Jim, Jimmy, or Jamie..." James slows, just enough to hang back and end up on Steve's left. "I'll tell you what, then. If you can think of something *and* get it okayed by Beckah and Naomi, that'll be my nickname. Speaking of the girls." He pulls a handkerchief-wrapped something and a pocket knife from his jacket pocket. "I got specific instructions to give half of this to you. You feel up to chewing?" With almost a flourish, James unwraps the handkerchief to reveal a singular yellow banana. "I don't know what kind of birthday gift it is, if you gotta share it with someone, but that's sisters for you. Lucky I like you, Rogers." "How about Jimbo? Or Barney?" Though the scrunch of Steve's face -- asymmetrical, with one cheek swelling up stiff -- suggests he's not too enthused with his own suggestions. "If only your middle name weren't so awkward. Want mine?" He peers at the parcel as James unwraps it. "Oh gee, you don't have to share your birthday present with me. I'll tell the girls you shared, alright?" "You ever call me Jimbo and your other cheek'll be swelling up to match," though there is no heat from James with the statement. "James Grant Barnes," he tries out for size, considering, before shaking his head. "Nah. Buchanan at least has some sort of rhythm to it, and Steven Buchanan Rogers don't exactly roll off the tongue either." Even with Steve's insistence, he cuts the banana into two mostly-equal pieces and hands one over. "If you think you can get a lie past Beckah, you must have hit your head pretty hard somewhere back there." Steve blushes, accepting his half of the banana now. "Ma says there's no shame in being a bad liar," he hedges. "But I think even she wishes I were maybe a little better at it." He turns the treat over in his hands meditatively. "How about something that's short for Buchanan? Buck?" His pale blue eyes light up. "Like Buck Rogers!" James snorts and shakes his head."Forget lying." He peels his own half-banana, cutting off slices and eating them off his knife. "You gotta get better at keeping everything that runs through your thick head off your face." Steve's enthusiasm is contagious, makes him grin. "I do like Buck Rogers," he says. "Okay, try calling me that. See if it sounds good." "What, you don't like my face?" Steve flashes a lopsided -- and probably painful -- grin. He nibbles at his banana, eyes going slightly unfocused with thought. "Okay. So how about...happy birthday, Buck." Frowns. "Or Bucky, maybe? What do you think?" "Thanks, Steve." Grin widening into a smile, James - Bucky - gives Steve another soft punch in the shoulder, careful of his knife. "I like Buck, but I think Bucky Barnes sounds better. Why not both of 'em?" It is, after all, only a boy's 12th birthday once. "Well then, happy twelveth, Bucky Barnes." Steve's smile is happy and guileless now as he tackles the morsel of birthday banana. "Once that catches on, I won't have to get into any fights over you anymore."