A/N: I wanted Depression-era Steve and Bucky in a soup kitchen, but I couldn't find any so I wrote my own.

falling from the sky, there are raindrops in my eyes

(and my thoughts are digging in the back yard)

March 1936
It's raining again.

Steve coughs, tugs his jacket tighter around his shoulders. It's threadbare and most of the buttons are missing, but it used to be Bucky's so it's quite a bit too big. The extra fabric is welcome.

The line for the soup kitchen stretches out into the street despite the wet. No one has an umbrella, of course. The kind of people who come here don't have money for stuff like that. A few people have their coats pulled up over their heads, but most just let the rain drip from the brims of their caps like Steve's doing, heads bent to avoid eye contact with the others in line. A fuzzy glow haloes the street's one lamp, and a subdued silence hangs oppressive, broken only by the gentle, insistent patter of rain, the occasional sound of voices, and the constant shuffle of feet moving forward or shifting restlessly in line.

It's getting late, so the line's mostly men: rough-looking characters, ragged hoboes, family men: Steve knows the type: didn't succeed in finding work today so they're lining up for a handout to take home. Maybe a few more like him, can't put in a full day of work because of sickly bodies and strained lungs.

Bucky wasn't home yet when Steve left; that either means he found work and is staying out late, or that he didn't find any and is staying out late. In any case, they have an agreement that Steve will find something if he's well enough; 'starve a fever, feed a cough,' Bucky quoted and made Steve promise. So when he's not home, Bucky'll know the usual place to look.

He's through the door now, submerged in the smells of wet wool, unwashed people, and cigarette smoke, and trying not to breathe too deep because he'll just start hacking again. He's trying to brush some of the water from his coat without taking it off, and that's when he notices the little girl standing behind him.

She's tiny and dressed too cold for the weather, in a too-small, holey yellow sweater over a brown jumper dress, and there are holes in her shoes. Her face hasn't been washed in a while. Steve's heart twists. He can't tell if there's anyone with her, but he'd guess not; the man standing behind her looks pretty rough, and possibly kinda drunk. Steve crouches, meets her big grey eyes and puts on his best encouraging smile, the one that had always put little kids at ease. 'Hey. You with anybody?'

She gives him a doubtful look; good, she doesn't trust strangers quickly. Finally, she shakes her head.

'Wanna go ahead of me?' he asks, low.

Brown, draggled curls bob as she nods, giving him a tentative smile back. She looks like a drowned rat, Steve thinks ruefully, and suddenly all he wants to do is give her a hug and tell her everything'll be better.

Little kids can always tell when you lie.

They switch, Steve angling himself between the kid and the rough-looking man, and yeah, that's better. He stifles another cough in his wet sleeve.

They're at the long table in another ten minutes, or so. Steve watches the little girl solemnly reach up for the small piece of bread and chipped mug of soup handed her, hears her shy thank you. He's next. The guy handing out food today knows him by sight, so he gets a smile and a 'hey, kid.' Steve leans over the table a bit, asks quietly, 'That girl – she come here often? Says she's not with anyone.'

He gets a doubtful look, and then the man apparently decides he's harmless and nods. 'She's been around the last week or so. Dirtier every time – I have a feeling she's sleepin' on the street, been meaning to get someone to check up on that, but – ' he jerks his head, indicating the steady lineup, the crowded room, the hungry eyes. 'Been a little busy.'

Steve takes his mug of soup, not wanting to hold up the line. 'I might be able to help her,' he says, and the man gives him a tired smile. 'All right, kid. I guess you're on the level. You tell me how it goes, okay?'

Steve stifles another cough as he leaves the line, and the guy calls after him. 'Get that cough checked out, why doncha?'

Steve almost laughs (as if they have money for that) but ends up having a coughing fit instead. When he steadies, he hasn't spilled much of the thin broth in his cup. He takes a ragged breath, checks for a place to sit, trying to find the small girl at the same time. He gets a glimpse of yellow wool a few paces away just as there's a shrill cry and raised voices in that direction.

Ducking under an elbow, Steve comes on the scene. One of Bucky's choicer curses comes to mind. The little girl's standing in front of the rough-looking guy from earlier. He's trying to swipe her mug of broth, and she's hanging onto it with surprising fierceness; just as Steve takes in what's happening, the kid gives a tug and the guy lets go at the same time, and she gets covered in broth.

Steve puts down his own food on the nearest table, grabs the guy's arm, because he's now going for the girl's piece of bread, and no, this is not okay, none of this is okay, the kid shouldn't even have to be here in a place like this, she should be tucked up safe at home in bed with parents and a teddy bear and a full tummy and everything she doesn't have. 'Mister, leave it.'

People are milling around, only a few glancing their way. Too full of their own misery, Steve thinks bitterly, and steps between the girl and her antagonist. 'Just leave her alon-' – he breaks down coughing again. Yeah, real intimidating, Rogers. The drunk's turning his attention to Steve now, though. Good.

'Pick on someone your own size,' he manages hoarsely, before the guy snarls, one big fist snapping out quick, and Steve's left eye explodes in stars.

Head snapping back with the impact, Steve staggers back a few paces, nearly falls, pulls himself together in time to collect a second punch, this time to the gut.

He's absurdly thankful that his stomach's still empty as he goes down, because he'd have thrown up for sure and that'd have been a waste, and okay, he's a bit groggy, but he gets to his feet and looks up.

It's about then that the girl darts in under the drunk's heavy-handed swing at her, stomps on his foot, and then bites down hard on the hand he's slapping at her face. Steve grins blearily, swallows hard against another bout of coughing. A hand on his shoulder, pulling him away, and then his friend from the food table says to the other man, 'Here, you – come back when you're sober.'

The tough protests, but soup-kitchen guy is stronger, manages to steer him away, and Steve is aware of the door opening, slamming shut again behind their antagonist. His stomach's hurting something fierce, and he's going to have a nice bruise there tomorrow. Steve goes to his knees, tries to breathe through the pain.

A small hand carefully brushes hair out of Steve's eyes. He looks up to see the little girl, worried, too-old eyes staring at him, lip caught between her teeth. Dredging up a smile, he lifts a hand to her shoulder and leaves it there because it's too much effort to move any further. 'Hey. You okay?'

She frowns, staring at him like he's nuts, and her look is easy to read. Are you?

'I'll be fine.' Steve grips a table edge, pulls himself up and winces. 'Hey. Can I sit by you? I don't have anyone to eat with.'

Still silent, the little girl gives another slight nod and threads a path through the emptying room to a bench against the wall, clutching her piece of bread in both hands. Steve follows, sinks gratefully down, and puts the mug between them. 'Want it? I'm not very hungry.'

It's true; his stomach is still churning. Steve squelches the thought of how soothing the broth might feel on his sore throat. Kid's still staring up at him, mouth full of bread and those eyes too big for her little face. Steve pushes the mug encouragingly towards her, puts his piece of bread in his jacket pocket for when he doesn't feel so nauseous.

She picks up the cup and drinks it between bites. Steve's reminded belatedly of the spilled liquid that had got all over the little girl's front, digs out his handkerchief and kneels down in front of her to mop her up a bit. She sits there patiently while he works, legs dangling a foot above the floor, looking so incredibly vulnerable.

'Where's your folks?' he asks quietly, putting the hanky away. She looks down, cradling the mug between tiny hands.

'Dead.'

It's the first word he's got out of her. Steve winces again, remembers the day Mam passed and how he'd at least had somewhere to go.

'Don't you have anybody?'

Another shake of the head; now there are tears welling up in her eyes. Aw, shucks. Steve puts an arm around her shoulders, gut twinging when he moves too quick. 'Hey – hey, it's okay. It's gonna be okay.'

'How?' she whispers, thin shoulders shaking.

'Me an' my friend, we can figure somethin' out,' Steve promises, fiercely protective.

That gets him a very small smile. 'Really?'

'Promise.'

The little girl relaxes into his side all at once, tension melting out of her body. ''Kay.'

'What's your name?'

'Joji,' she murmurs. 'Jos'phine, really. What's yours?'

He tells her, and then starts talking about Bucky, about the sisters at Sacred Heart who'll help her out. He's in the middle of a sentence when she suddenly clambers up into his lap, curling up trustfully. Steve swallows, keeps going in a quiet voice, trying not to cough. Pretty soon she's fallen asleep, the thumb she'd been sucking on falling out of her mouth. He wonders how old she is – not more than five or six, for sure.

It's peaceful, sitting like this. Steve forgets his throbbing eye and the bruises on his midsection, leans back exhausted against the wall. Someone comes to collect the empty cup, tells them they'll have to leave soon, and Steve says tiredly, 'C'n we just wait for my friend – he's coming to find us – ' and then Bucky's there, standing tall and tired over them, smile twisting up the corner of his mouth. 'Hey.'

'Heya,' Steve answers, his own tired grin meeting his friend's. 'Look what I found – can we keep her?'

Bucky crouches down next to him, staring at the sleeping child. 'Where'd she come from?'

'Folks are dead,' Steve says quietly. 'She's got nobody, Buck.'

Bucky's gaze twitches up to Steve's black eye. 'Had an accident, didja?'

''S nothing.' Steve roots in the pocket of his jacket and pulls out the piece of bread, holding it out. 'Here, saved it for you.'

Bucky breathes out the ghost of a laugh. 'Like you don't need it.'

'I'm not hungry, honest Injun.'

Bucky catches the stubborn note in Steve's voice, apparently, because he takes the bread with no further argument, sitting back on his heels and tearing off a piece. 'What're we gonna do with her?'

Steve's arm tightens around Joji. He really, but really wishes they could just take her home, but they already have a hard time finding work to feed two mouths. 'Sister Monica, I thought.'

'Yeah. Good idea.'

Steve gets up, picks the little girl up. She's pretty light, but the pressure on his injured stomach is painful. Bucky's risen as well, catches Steve's elbow as he staggers. 'I can carry her.'

'Nah,' Steve manages. 'I've got her.' With Bucky's help, he maneuvers Joji so her arms are draped around his neck and her legs around his waist. Her knees are scraped. She only wakes up halfway, mutters something, and buries her face into the crook of his shoulder again. Bucky's watching, looking compassionate, dangit. 'Steve, we can't keep her.'

He sighs, picking his way around benches, out the door into the shock of cold air and rain in the dark street. Joji shifts in his arms. 'Yeah. I know.'

Sister Monica was always Steve and Bucky's favourite when they lived at Sacred Heart. They've never seen her thrown by anything, not even during The Incident in '33 when Steve was fourteen and Bucky fifteen, involving a book, three playing cards and a jar of syrup, that they've both agreed never happened. In keeping with this, she appears unperturbed to be knocked up out of bed by two former students at midnight on a Wednesday and handed a drowsy five-year-old girl.

'Of course, dear, we'll make room for her – yes, I'll have inquiries made about her parents– poor little love, all she wants is a bath and bed – I'll make a pot of cocoa, of course you'll have some? No, James, you're both coming in, you're soaked, and Steven, you really ought to take care of that cough…'

Inexorably, she pulls them inside, and Steve gets again that feeling he used to get when he and Bucky got into trouble – that Sister Monica would take care of everything – and lets himself relax.

(They go back to visit Joji on Sundays, and the nuns tell them their visits are the highlight of the little girl's week. It's almost like having a sister. One time, Steve makes her a picture book, drawing the pictures on the back of soup-can labels and sewing them together with a thread pulled from his sweater.)

(They send her letters, during the war: tall tales of what they're up to, with all the gory bits cut out; sketches of their squadmates. Twelve-year-old Joji writes back, teasing Steve about Agent Carter, telling Bucky all about school and what she's doing.

In 1944, Steve has to send her a letter that's incredibly hard to write, tells her that Bucky's gone, and if the ink on his letter's running a bit in places, her letter back is even worse, tear-spotted and crumpled.)

(Joji still has that picture book when Steve makes it back to visit her, seventy years later, and her face still lights up when she sees him the way it did when she was a little girl.)