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New York City
February 1st, 1941
Charlotte ascended the stairwell with agonizing slowness, each step echoing the fatigue that clung to her after a night shift at the hospital. The prospect of retreating home and surrendering to a well-deserved slumber beckoned, a tempting respite from the nocturnal hustle of the medical world. Finally conquering the seemingly endless staircase to her fifth-floor apartment, she fumbled with her keys, their jingling notes accompanying the quiet of the late-hour city.
Easing the door open, she slipped into her haven, ensuring it clicked securely behind her. Shoes flung off, she gravitated to the kitchen, snatching whatever sustenance the fridge offered. Seated at the table, she savored her late but well-earned dinner, the tranquility of her small apartment cocooning her in a temporary escape.
Working the night shift was a formidable challenge, not just in the struggle to stay awake during the witching hours, but also in navigating the labyrinth of ailments and emotions that awaited within the hospital's walls.
With her meal concluded, dishes neglected in the sink, Charlotte traversed to her bedroom. Shedding her nursing uniform, she exchanged it for the comfort of her nightgown. Nestled beneath the covers, her eyes succumbed to the allure of sleep, oblivious to the awakening city beyond.
Across the East River in Brooklyn, a man named James Buchanan Barnes, known to friends as Bucky, emerged from his bed, ready to greet the morning. A routine cup of coffee and a few pieces of toast marked the prelude to his day. Leaving his apartment, he navigated the cold Brooklyn streets, heading towards the home of his best friend, Steve Rogers, more a brother than a friend.
Steve and Bucky, inseparable since their schoolyard days, shared a bond that surpassed the one-year age gap. Bucky, a stalwart presence in Steve's life, had been there through trials and triumphs. As the city stirred to life, Bucky and Steve's camaraderie unfurled, a testament to the enduring strength of their brotherhood.
Throwing on his winter coat, Bucky descended the stairs, the chilly air greeting him as he ventured into the city. A ten-minute stroll brought him to Steve's building, where an invitation to spontaneity hung in the air.
"Aye, Steve, wake up, punk! We got things to do today," Bucky announced, claiming a spot on the sofa.
"I'm already awake, jerk, but thanks for waking up the rest of the building," Steve retorted, emerging from his bedroom in a jacket struggle.
"It's almost noon, Steve. Everyone should be awake by now. But that's not the point. It's a wonderful Saturday, and we've got absolutely nothing to do today. So, what do you say we go dancing tonight?" Bucky proposed, ushering Steve towards the door.
"Buck, I don't have a date. It's not like many girls are lining up to go out with this. I mean, look at me," Steve gestured toward his modest physique. "I'm a shrimp."
