I do not own Captain America.

I do own a son. Three, actually.

'Til the End of the Line

"Here, Ma, here. Drink this."

A weak cough. A trembling hand.

"Steve, you need to go. You'll get sick too."

Covered by thin, frail fingers.

Warm and comforting.

Determined.

Resolute.

"I'm not leaving you, Ma."

"Steve-"

"Shh, Ma. Drink this."

"Doctor, doctor! You've got to come quick! She's coughing blood!"

Weary man. White beard etched with grey. Tired eyes behind smudged glasses.

"Yes, it's dug down deep in her lungs now."

"Please, help her! Give her something!"

"Son, I've looked at her X-ray. There's nothing left to be done."

"There's got to be something you can do!"

A deep seated sigh.

"We've removed as much of the infected lung as we can. Anymore and she won't be able to draw breath-"

"She can't draw breath now!"

The worried, trembling, runt of a boy.

A man, really. He was a man.

Losing his mother.

With no way to save her.

"I'm sorry, son. All we can do now is make her comfortable."

"Comfortable, comfortable . . . what does that even mean?!"

Thick hand rubbed over grey bristles.

"It means, son, that she is not going to get better. And you need to go home before you get sick-"

"No. I'm not leaving her!"

"Then give her all the consideration you can because she is going to die soon."

Silence between them.

Broken only by the rattling coughs and moans of the terminally ill.

And a boy, a man, struggling to contain himself.

Struggling to accept.

"You knew this was coming, Steven. She's been getting sicker for some time now."

Head hung, blond and gelled into proper manly presentation.

As if that mattered.

But Ma said it did. She said it mattered.

So it mattered.

"Yeah. Yeah, I know. I just . . . I just thought . . . sometimes they get better . . ."

A large comforting hand upon a bony shoulder.

"Yes. Sometimes. But not this time, Steven. I'm sorry."

"I know. Me too."

Tuberculosis.

The one thing he was immune to.

The one thing that did not bring him down.

The one thing, out of so many, that he could not make better for her.

"Here, Steve, take this money and go buy some day old bread."

"What about meat, Ma? Can we get some meat too?"

"No, son, not this week. I'm making a stew. Mostly broth. But I've got some potatoes in there too."

"Ma-"

"Run along now and get some bread, Steve."

"Yes, Ma."

There was an abundance of meat now.

Unfortunately, it wasn't for him.

"Here you go, Mrs. Rogers. Eat up."

"Oh dear, I just don't think I can."

"Doctor's orders, Mrs. Rogers. You know that."

Knife and fork tremulously cutting the meat into bite sized portions.

A sizable amount slid over to the side of the plate.

"You take that piece, Steve. Put some meat on your bones."

"No, Ma. You need it."

Meat prodded.

"Oh, I'm afraid I'm not very hungry. You take it."

"Maybe later, Ma."

Another coughing fit ensues then and the food is forgotten entirely.

"Ma. Ma. Here, Ma. Let me hel- Nurse!"

He couldn't fix that they were poor and had no money.

Women without husbands and with frail sons just couldn't expect much out of life.

But at least they had each other.

And she always took care of him.

"Lay still, son. Lay still."

"I can't, Ma. It hurts."

Gentle, firm hands.

"I know, son. I know. How'd you bruise your ribs?"

"Oh, uh, I, uh-"

"Steve, were you fighting again?"

Quiet. Broken only by the splash of vinegar onto flinching skin.

"Ooooh, that's cold, Ma! And it stinks!"

Quiet shushing.

"Be still, son."

Young face squishing up in pain.

"Now, why were you fighting?"

"Ma-"

"Steven-"

Deep sigh of resignation.

"I had to. They were stealing Jimmy's lunch and he's only in fifth . . ."

"There, Ma. How's that feel?"

A grateful smile.

"That feels good, Steve. Thank you."

They sit near to one another, her reclined on a cot. Laid out in full sunlight.

Blanket drawn up to her chin.

Between the two, all the warm the world can provide.

And her son.

Steve.

Such a big, strong, brave, good-hearted man on the inside.

Falsely paraded as a weak, fragile boy without.

"Water, Ma?"

Holding it for her as she weakly sips. Trying to refrain from coughing for a few meager seconds.

"Thank you, Steve. You're a good son."

Companionable silence.

"I'm so proud of you."

As companionable as possible with one member slowly dying.

"Your father would be proud of you too."

Self-depreciative shake of the head.

"Oh, Ma-"

"No."

Weak but emphatic. And demanding to be heard.

Possibly for the last time.

"You're a good man, Steve Rogers. Don't ever let anyone tell you you're too small. On the inside you're . . . you're . . . you're . . ."

But she cannot finish. The coughing is taking her again. And this time, there's blood with it.

Too much.

The boy, the man, reaching for the towel, holding it up to her mouth.

Tenously scrabbling to keep his stoicism.

Because it's about her.

Her and not him at all.

It's about his Ma.

"It's okay, Ma. It's okay."

It is not okay.

"'I'm wearying to escape into that glorious world and to be always there: not seeing it dimly through tears-'"

"What is that you're reading?"

"'Wuthering Heights'. It's her favorite book."

A gentle smile.

"That's very kind. Many men wouldn't take the time to read a romance novel at a sick person's bedside."

"She's my mother."

Hesitant shuffling.

"Have you been watching yourself for symptoms of TB?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"Nothing."

And then, since no information appears forthcoming, he is left alone once more.

And the boy, the man, resumes his reading.

Without an ounce of shame or embarrassment.

'. . . and yearning for it through the walls of an aching heart . . .'

". . . need to go home, son. You need to rest."

"No."

"We'll call for you when-"

"No. I'm not leaving her."

The fever has spiked. The chills have returned.

The red spots on her flesh stand out bright and red as barn paint.

The sheets are damp with her sweat.

And her wheezing is worse than ever.

Morphine, they have given her morphine to ease the pain of breathing.

"She doesn't know you're here, son. She won't know you're gone."

"No."

And for lack of a better plan, they leave him alone.

A man, a boy, alone in the sea of sickness.

Alone in a world of uncertainty.

Uncertain of everything.

Except that his mother is going to die.

And he doesn't want her to be alone when she does.

"I love you, Ma."

"She's gone, Buck. She's dead."

"I'll be right there."

". . . have much to pay you."

"I've a got some good plain pine. Not much to look at, but nice and sturdy."

He forces himself to meet the mortician's grey eyes.

"I can pay you weekly if you'll let me."

And this gentleman, old enough to have seen a world of death pass through his parlor, looks at the boy.

And sees the man.

"I'm sure we can come to an agreement."

And the man-boy, this Steve Rogers, nods. Holds out a hand.

A good, firm handshake.

And this caretaker of the dead instinctually feels he's made the right decision.

"Don't spread it around though, son. Don't need every Tom, Dick, and Harry begging on my doorstep."

The small man smiles just a little. And speaks with directness and honesty.

"No, sir."

"We could help you out, Steve. Get her something nice."

"No, Buck. I can take care of it, thanks."

"You sure? I mean, we-"

"No, Buck."

"Alright, pal. If you say so."

"I do."

Not many mourners.

Sarah Rogers had spent her life raising her son.

And caring for her patients, many terminally ill.

So the crowd is small.

A few nurses from the TB ward.

A grocer down the street.

And the Barnes' family. Mother, father, sisters.

Bucky.

They sit behind, silent supporters of the lonely young man staring determinedly dry-eyed at the plain pinewood box.

". . . a time to be born, a time to die . . ."

I'm sorry, Ma.

". . . a time to plant, a time to reap what has been planted . . ."

I'm sorry I couldn't do more to help you.

He puts on a good face as the minister in the pulpit drones on. But isn't listening much at all.

I love you.

Because his mother is dead and gone.

He'd wanted to walk for a while. By himself. Clear his thoughts.

Sarah Rogers was dead.

She had worked her fingers to the bone.

Refused to remarry just to fill the societal gap and financial stability provided by a husband.

She had raised her son, cared for her patients, and kept her head high.

Through financial destitution, she had gone to bed many a night hungry so that her son would not.

She had forgone new clothes, sewn patches on his, and made do with the barest of essentials.

She had never complained, never bemoaned the hand fate dealt her, had never shown shame in her son.

A son, that, so small and weak, could never measure up to the other boys.

Boys like James Buchanan Barnes.

A big, strapping boy with a big, impressive name.

No, she had seen her son for what he was.

A man.

Small in statue but big in heart and courage.

Loyalty and honor.

Principal and idealism and belief.

Her Steve Rogers was a man just like any other.

"You're just fine, Steve. You do what you can, where you can. And you'll be just fine."

"Yes, Ma."

And his mother was, had been, so very proud of him.

And now that mother was gone.

And for what?

"We looked for you after. My folks wanted to give you a ride to the cemetery."

Really sad, I know. But it's a part of life. Steve's life.

And he told me to tell it.

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