You heard as the front door swung shut, softly clasped as though who ever had stepped into the house, was trying their best to conceal the sound of the door sealing with the doorframe. But even with caution, there was a slight creak in the hinges, that alerted anyone who was home that someone had entered. 

Reaching for the dry towel sitting in a loose pile on the counter beside your arm, you dry your soapy hands in the soft rag. The soapy residue from the dishes disappearing into the light cotton, as your feet carry you through the small kitchen and into the front room. The setting sun streamed in through the linin curtain in thick rays of warm light, and it bathed the comfortable room in a orangish hue that brightens even the darkest corners of the walls. 

You paused silently in the doorway, feeling the wooden frame press softly against your back as you leaned backwards slightly. Your hands stopped their motions to clean any trace of soap from your fingers as your eyes caught a glimpse of the person who had entered. You knew who it was the second the door opened, there weren't many possibilities other than this one. And yet, as you eyes landed across his pale and subtly handsome face, a sting of sadness tugged at your heart. 

He avoided you on days like these; an explanation for the near silent entrance at the front door. When your eyes found him, his head would always turn away in an attempt to conceal his face from your awaiting gaze. He would shield his body from your wandering and concerned eyes, and he didn't say a word as he arrived back home. He simply limped up those steps and hid away in his bedroom until the day slowly bled into the nighttime hours. The shame and embarrassment clear in his appearance was answer enough for any question you ached to ask him. 

A soft sigh passes through your lips as you push yourself from the doorframe, and step quietly back into the kitchen. He may have slipped by you in a brisk flash, but it was still a long enough glance to spot the blackness swelling beneath his right eye. His flesh bruised and throbbing with pain, as though it had it's own voice to scream out it's agony. And the sight brought familiar tears to your eyes. 

There wasn't a thing you could do to stop it. No matter how much you wished you could take the beatings for him, all you could do was wait and see the aftermath. He was strong in so many ways, but you knew eventually the bulling was bound to wear him down to nothing. And the idea twisted your stomach into a million tiny knots. 

Steve would have known what to do... what to say to him... how to help him. 

But it was just you now. Just you and your son, who was more like his father in ways he didn't even know.

Running a hand over your face, to clear away any fallen tears, you breathed in a deep breath. One that rushed into your lungs swiftly and clearly, and you prayed it would be enough to get you through this. And walking to the staircase, you begin to climb the many steps slowly. You tried to think of the things Steve would've said, when your son came home beat to a pulp by some local bullies, but nothing seemed real enough. Nothing seemed like it would mean anything if it came from your lips, and not his father's. 

Closing your eyes, as you take one last deep breath, your knuckles knock softly on the first wooden door on the left as you reach the top of the hallway. And they only slowly begin to reopen as you hear rustling behind the door, and a soft murmur allowing you to enter. 

Twisting the knob hesitantly, you step into the dimly lit bedroom. And looking around the small space, you spot your son sitting slouched over on his loosely made bed. The sheets wrinkled beneath his legs as he sits in the middle on top of the covers. And spread out in front of him, the covers quickly shut by his swollen and bloody hands, are comic books. 

"Did you need something Ma?" 

His voice was strained, tired and his eyes avoided meeting your gaze. As though he might turn to stone if he did. But it took you a moment to fully hear his question, as your attention was so deeply focused in on the many comic books that you hadn't seen in what felt like forever. Ever since your son had moved on from that phase in his childhood, those thin books sat in a brown box in the back of his closet. The illustrations and the stories no longer seeing the light of day. Until now.

"I--" You clear your throat softly, as you refocus your eyes on your son. "I just wanted to see how you were holding up."

The words sounded pitiful, no matter how true they were. But your son's eyes began to slowly raise, hesitation and vulnerably evident in his timid movements. 

"Still in one piece," He mumbles with a pained shrug of his shoulder, and his eyes finally find yours. His bright baby blues stunning you, as though it was his father who sat feet away from you, instead of your young son. It still affected you sometimes, their unbelievable physical similarities, but you were able to recover quickly after much practice. 

"Maybe so," You said softly, and stepped further into the quiet room. Reaching the edge of his bed, you sit down and feel the side of the bed begin to dip just barely beneath you. "but sometimes people forget about the internal injuries."

Your son looked at you for a moment, his eyes gazing heavily at your face before they dropped and he stared down at his fingers that were caked in dried crimson blood.

"I fought back this time," He mumbled under his breath. "and I got a hit or two in too. But I guess it won't matter much when the next one's two times tougher than I am."

His blonde hair was tousled but not in the way the wind would tussle it, this was from rolling around in some dirty alley fighting for his life. And his skin was scrapped up from his ear to his jaw, the bruises making him seem more black and blue than his usual pale white skin tone.

"I thought you were over the comic book phase?" You ask, switching the subject and specifically using the words he said years ago. You could feel the pain radiating off of him, and it wasn't just from the beating of his flesh. You could see it in his weighed down eyes and the way he sat slouched in defeat. And you knew changing the subject might keep him from spiraling too fast in front of you.

His head pops up slowly, and he shrugs faintly again. "I didn't have against the comic books themselves."

You tilted your head, "Then what was it?"

Your son chewed nervously on his puffy lower lip, despite the pain it must've been causing him. "It was the hero."

Looking down at the many issues strewn across the messy bedding, bright images of red and blue shields painted the covers. A man in a spangled suit in a pursuit for freedom and justice. And although the images of the familiar face made your heart throb with a long ago, yet never lost pain, you realized that they made your son hurt in a different way.

He felt inferior when compared to his father. Not only a war hero, but a real life superhero. He read book after book, seeing the adventures his father went on, the fights he fought with the strength he had, and then looked at himself in the mirror. That's how your son knew him, a man unlike any other. Captain America. Whereas you would always think of him as just Steve Rogers.

Your son saw his father as the kind of man he could never be. An impossible dream. A pair of shoes he would never be able to fill. And the stories still told of his heroism and impressive capabilities, made it harder for him to see all the ways he was exactly like his father. 

Sighing softly, you reach your hand out. Placing it softly against your son's leg, feeling him tense just briefly underneath your tender touch. 

"He wasn't always like that you know," You assure him softly, and his blue eyes lift to meet your gaze once again. "he wasn't always the man you see him as in those comic books of yours. Or even the man I'm sure you see in your head."

Your son swallowed deeply, before speaking up in a soft and shaky voice, and asking a question he hardly ever asked you anymore.

"What was he like Ma?"

And softly, you smiled. "He was a lot like you."

"Just a kid from Brooklyn." 

Your hand left your son's leg, as your gaze fell and you picked up one of the thin comic books into your hands. 

"He was smaller than most his age, like you. He had disadvantages, ones that made him an easy target." You explained softly. "it wasn't unusual for him to come home with bruises marring his face just like you do. He was the little guy, fighting back against the bullies who picked on him. But his size and his lack of physical strength, had nothing to do with how strong he was. And it doesn't with you either."

"He wanted to make a difference, not just in the war but in the world. He wanted to help where he could, and protect the people that couldn't protect themselves."

Your finger brushed gently over the faded image of Captain America on the cover, storming off somewhere to save the day. "He had bravery and courage, and he was selfless in a way that I could never quite understand. And sometimes scared me half to death. But he was determined and he never gave up. Even if he was one man up against an army, he fought back because it was what he believed in."

"He wasn't always this super soldier, lifting tanks and crushing Nazi's." You tell your son as you lift your gaze away from the book. "He was a boy like you, trying to take on the local bullies one day at a time. And even though he lost each and every fight, he never lost sight of why he fought back. He never lost sight of himself, because he had heart. Heart like the world had never seen."

"And ever since your father passed," You swallowed slowly. "There's only been one other person I've seen with a heart like his."

Your son raised a brow in interest. "Who?"

You smiled warmly at you beautiful son who embodied Steve in every possible way. 

"You, my love."

Carefully, you reach your hand out and brush a fallen strand of pale blond hair from your boy's blue eyes. Your fingers soft and cautious as not to hurt the bruises lining his face. 

"Everything that makes you strong and brave is inside you, not on the outside." You tell him softly, with tears brimming in your kind eyes. "It doesn't matter if you're smaller than the rest of them, or that you may not be as strong physically like your father eventually was. Because when it comes down to it, the bullies who are fearless and built with brawn on the outside, are nothing more than fearful cowards on the inside."

"Whereas you, my love, you are your father's son. Good through and through, and that's what sets you apart from all the rest. It's what makes you stronger than any other, because you were born with the goodness already inside you."

Your son smiled softly at you, despite the split in the side of his lower lip. "So you're saying, that not being any kind of special..."

"Makes you special." You answer him with a mirrored smile. "Because you're just a regular kid who wants to make a difference anyway he can. Even if that means standing up to a bully two times bigger than he is."

"Do you think..." Your sons shakes his head as he cuts himself off.

"Do I think what honey?"

Your son's eyes peek up at you timidly, before finishing his thought. "Do you think he would've been proud of me?"

Smiling softly as the tears grow with an immense burning sensation in your eyes, you purse your lips softly. "I know he's proud of you. There isn't a single doubt in my mind that he isn't up there in heaven right now, looking down upon you with pride shining in those blue eyes of his."

"He would've loved the man you're growing up to be."

A/N: This idea came to me as I was rewatching The First Avenger, and I just had to write it! The idea of Steve leaving behind a child after crashing the plane, and that boy growing up in not only the shadow of his hero father, but growing up in a similar way that he did, was an idea that really captivated me. I let the writing go where it wanted to go, and I'm really happy with it. I hope you all enjoyed it!! ❤