Chapter 1: Daisies
Chapter Text
March 1929 - Brooklyn, New York
Bucky swung his legs forward to build up momentum, flying high and free on the swing. The wind pushed his hair away from his face and gently caressed his cheeks.
It was the beginning of spring and the sun was finally showing her face, clearing out all of the snow previously dusting the ground. Even with the light breeze, Bucky could feel the warmth in the air and was glad for it. He hated the cold.
The cold was bitter and unforgiving, stopping on nobody's account. It caused discomfort and sickness. In his family, like many others right now, money was tight—when someone inevitably got sick or needed a winter coat or boots, there wasn’t enough money to go around. Sacrifices always had to be made, and Bucky didn’t like to see anyone hurt, hated that difficult choices had to be made.
The thing he hated most about the cold though was what it did to Steve. The sound of wheezing breaths and wet coughs were forever ingrained into his brain.
Steve was Bucky’s best friend since they met on this same playground at eight years old. It had been four more years since that, but Bucky remembered the day like it was yesterday.
He’d often seen some older, bigger guys picking on Steve. He’d never done anything about it—now he regrets waiting so long to intervene. If he could go back and put an end to it the minute he first saw it, he’d do it in a heartbeat. Unfortunately, in actuality, it took him a few months to build the courage to step in.
It was like every other time, all the kids were at the playground. Bucky was sitting on the bench alone arranging the daisies he’d just picked for his mom. He’d wanted to give her a surprise—she’d been down over his father’s recent passing. Everyone had.
Four Years Ago…
1925 - Brooklyn, New York
Bucky was just finishing neatly bundling the delicate flowers in one hand when Macy Williams came running over.
He was always nice to her, but Bucky didn’t particularly enjoy Macy’s company. He knew she had a crush on him, and his mom taught him to never be rude to a lady. It’s just that she was constantly pestering him at the wrong times.
Like now.
Bucky really wasn’t in the mood to entertain her advances or conversation. He wanted to be alone, in silence, sitting with nothing but his thoughts. Macy knew his dad just died—pretty much everyone in town did—so couldn’t she just let him mourn in peace? She must’ve not understood that that’s what he was trying to do right now, or maybe she just didn’t care to give him some space.
Either way, he didn’t feel like talking to her.
When Macy approached, she barely slowed down and nearly knocked Bucky off of his spot on the bench. She didn’t take a seat, just stood hovering at his legs. “James!” she exclaimed.
Bucky sighed and looked up from the pretty white flowers in his hand. “What’s up, Macy?” He tried to plaster a pleasant look on his face, but failed pretty miserably and ended up with a short, ingenuine tight lipped smile.
He heard the commotion before she said anything. Over by the slide, there was a circle forming. Around what, Bucky wasn’t so sure, but he had his assumptions.
Probably that punk with a mouth too big for his body. When would he learn?
Macy was giddy with excitement. It was overflowing from everywhere on her body—the way she was slightly bouncing up and down, the way her smile spanned the width of her face, the way her voice was filled with exhilaration when she told him the twins were about to teach “that no good Rogers kid” a lesson and Bucky just had to come watch with her.
He wasn’t shocked to hear who was at the center of the trouble. It seemed like Steven Rogers always had something to say and wasn’t afraid of the trouble it might cause. Bucky thought he was an idiot that didn’t know self-preservation or how to pick his battles. He was a small guy, and should know when to step down.
Hearing that he took on the twins was surprising to say the least. They were a few years older, and had multiple inches on even Bucky, who was tall for his age. With that knowledge, Bucky knew they must tower over Steven. Not only that, but they were pretty beefy kids. How they could afford the food to put on that weight was beyond Bucky, and he wasn’t sure whether or not he should be jealous.
And while he never usually got involved in drama, Bucky was intrigued as to what could have possibly possessed Rogers to get into it with them. So, he accepted her offer.
Flowers still in hand, Bucky left his seat on the rusting metal bench and let himself be dragged by his wrist to the growing circle of children. He could faintly hear Steven’s voice over the thrum of chatter from onlookers, and to say he sounded upset was an understatement. Bucky had heard him argue before, he was always in a disagreement with someone it seemed, but never had he heard this much emotion in the boy’s voice.
Macy cleared a path through the kids in order to get her and Bucky a front row view. She was still tightly grasping his wrist, smile growing by the second.
Bucky didn’t share the same sentiment. He wasn’t looking forward to seeing this poor kid get beat on by guys double his size. It was always difficult to watch.
Steven’s face was one of hard determination, clearly displaying the fact that he refused to give up. From the looks of it the fight hadn’t started yet, but the argument was heated enough that Bucky knew exactly what direction things were headed towards.
Now that he was close up, he could clearly hear the words being spoken. He was just able to hear the last bit of what Randall, the shorter haired twin, said to Rogers.
“—could’ve been avoided if you just minded your own business.” He cracked his knuckles menacingly. “If you give it up now, maybe Billy and I will even consider letting you go.”
Billy gave his brother a look that said he absolutely was not planning on letting anything go. In Bucky’s eyes, no matter what Steven did, he was pretty screwed.
Steven glared up at them, all the contempt in the world resting in his eyes. Bucky didn’t know how someone so small could possibly hold that much weight in a single gaze. “You know I can’t do that,” he replied.
This time, it was Billy who spoke up. “It seems you never do. When are you gonna learn, Rogers,” he chuckled condescendingly, “you get nothing but a beating when you go sticking your nose into places it doesn’t belong.”
“And when are you two gonna learn,” he sneered, “that talking about someone when they’re not there to defend themselves doesn’t make you any cooler, it just makes you a coward and a bully,” Steven spat back. Bucky could see his fists clenched at his sides, gearing up for a fight.
All around him, Bucky could hear the faint snickers in the crowd. He had to admit, it was a solid response that even had him fighting to hold back a smirk. In the back of his head, he wondered who the twins were talking about to make the Rogers kid so mad. Was it a family member? It must’ve been, because Steven didn’t have any friends.
Sometimes, Bucky felt pity for him. And occasionally, the crazy idea of stepping in crossed his mind. But that was only at the particularly brutal times, when Steven was already on the ground, half conscious, still getting the crap kicked out of him.
Bucky never actually followed through with that thought, because, really, it wasn’t his problem. If Steven wanted to be an idiot, that was on him. Bucky wasn’t willing to put himself on the line for someone who didn’t learn from their mistakes. Sure, he felt bad, but he also had to be logical.
Behind him, the chatter of two girls brought him back to the present. Up ahead, the twins and Steve were still caught in a staredown, so he figured he’d tune in to the hushed voices behind him. He was never above eavesdropping.
“—but anyways, do you know what got the pipsqueak so mad?
“Oh, yeah. Just the twins being the twins. Classic.”
“I figured that, but…I don’t know” the voice paused for a few seconds, as if in deep thought. “Things just seem different this time. What specifically did they say, do you know?” She said, quieter, if that was even possible. Bucky had to strain to keep listening.
Up ahead, the first blow was delivered, but Bucky was too focused on the conversation behind him to register what was going on in front of him. Macy was jumping up and down, yelling in his ear, and the crowd was roaring, egging them on. Bucky wished he could yell at them all to shut up. Something inside him was telling him that he needed to hear the conversation between the girls.
“I’m pretty sure they were just talking about some idiot soldier. Something about how the fool got himself killed before ever even stepping on the battlefield.” The girl giggled. Bucky’s heart went cold. The story sounded too familiar. “They weren’t even talking to Rogers this time, he just overheard and jumped in.”
“How would they even know that? About the soldier.”
“Don’t ask me, rumors travel quickly. Their parents probably read it in the newspaper, you know those sections where they talk about casualties. I’m betting they just overheard them discussing it.”
“That makes sense I guess. What doesn’t make sense to me is why that got Steven so upset…it doesn’t sound that that big of a deal to me.”
“Well, he gets like that when people talk bad about soldiers, it’s nothing new. But, that’s not all they said.” Bucky caught himself subconsciously leaning back to make sure he was hearing everything right. “Apparently, that idiot soldier was—”
The voices were cut off with a thud and a crack, and Bucky’s attention was pulled to the fight.
“You just want to play the damn hero all the time, don’t you, Rogers?” Randall barked, looking down at Steven, who was stumbling to his feet. Blood was dripping down the side of his face from a gash on his cheekbone. “See where it’s gotten you? Learn to mind your own business and maybe you’ll spend less time getting your ass kicked.”
Steven laughed, shaking his head and he brushed dirt off of his clothes. “Me? Mind my own business? That’s rich.”
He let his gaze fall on the brothers, fearless and stubborn. Of course he wasn’t backing down. “All you two do is talk . I’m sick of it.” Steven pointed an accusing finger at them. “It’s not your right to discuss and mock things that you know nothing about.”
The twins didn’t look so amused anymore, and the crowd had quieted down, only a dull murmur here or there. Even the girls who Bucky was eavesdropping on were silent now, hanging onto Steven’s every word.
“Barnes was a soldier. I don’t care how he died, him being out there in the first place showed he had more guts and courage than the two of you combined. I don’t want to hear his name coming from your mouths again.”
Bucky’s body went lax, and somewhere in the distance, he could feel Macy dropping his wrist, could see her looking over at him slack-jawed—like she had no idea. You could hear a pin drop in the crowd, and Bucky didn’t like how many eyes were shifting to him.
But Steven wasn’t done. “And if you had any respect, you’d leave James out of it too. You can’t just ridicule him and his family behind his back and think that’s okay.”
Bucky was having trouble breathing. This was because of him? He couldn’t move, he wanted to run—away from the eyes and the words and the reality of it all.
“That’s it,” Billy said, walking up to Steve. “James’ daddy was weak, and a coward. He’s no different, and we’d say it again to his face.” He closed his sentence with a final blow that sent Steven tumbling to the ground. But it didn’t stop there.
Randall walked up after his brother, delivering a kick to Steven’s ribs. Quiet chatter had started to return to the crowd, people discussing the situation or laughing at Roger’s expense. The twins were coming down hard on him.
Suddenly, Bucky regained control of his body, and made a break for it.
But not to leave the crowd, no.
He was headed straight to the middle of the circle to promptly push Billy and Randall away from Steven.
—
Long story short, because Bucky didn’t feel like recalling that whole shitstorm of a fight, he’d beat the hell out of the twins. As he continued swinging his legs and building momentum on the swing, Bucky smiled to himself at the memory of their shocked faces when he rushed to Steve’s rescue.
He let out all of his pent-up grief and anger from his father’s death on them, and had no regrets. He’d be lying if he said it didn’t make him feel a little bit better. He was sick of feeling helpless, sick of Randall and Billy, and most of all sick of the way everyone treated Steve Rogers.
That was the day their friendship was formed.
What started out as a horrible day, turned out to become the best day of Bucky’s life. The one he’d always look back on with gratitude and nostalgia.
—
Bucky walked over to Steven, who was laying down in the dirt. The crowd had dispersed when the twins had run away bloody, bruised, and crying for their mother. Bucky wasn’t going to act remorseful, because if given the chance, he’d do it again—happily, with a smile on his face.
Steven was on his back, chest rising and falling raggedly as he panted—trying to gulp down as much oxygen as possible through his wheezes. He’d had the wind knocked out of him pretty bad.
Looking down at him, Bucky could see the blood dripping from Steven’s nose and the split in his lip. He shook his head and held out his right hand for Steven to take. In his left were still the bundle of daisies he’d gathered for his ma.
Steven accepted Bucky’s outstretched hand and let out a grunt when Bucky hauled him up.
He was even shorter up close, Bucky realized. He looked real skinny too—worryingly so. It was common for kids to be somewhat malnourished these days, but Steven looked downright sick. Bucky didn’t like the way it made him feel.
Bucky dropped Steven’s hand and sighed. “You didn’t have to do that, you know,” he said quietly, averting his gaze from the boy’s annoyingly intuitive eyes. He felt like his whole soul was on display.
“I know I didn’t have to.” Steven shrugged, a smirk tugging on his lips. “I wanted to.”
Bucky looked at him then, and was astonished. Steven Rogers might be the most perfect person he’d ever met. Was he an idiot? Most definitely. Did he probably have a death wish? Certainly. But he was so wholly good, even though Bucky had never done anything to earn his loyalty. If anything, Bucky was a part of the issue—a bystander who turned a blind eye and never bothered helping.
But he vowed that would change.
From this moment on, Bucky promised himself that he’d protect Steven Rogers and never let him get beat bloody ever again. He’d watch out for him, stay close, and not let anyone lay a finger on the boy.
Now, Bucky held out his left hand to Steven. The one with the daisies. “Well, um…take these. I appreciate it, Steven, really.”
It was probably weird to offer another boy flowers, but Bucky wasn’t sure what else to do. Whenever his ma was upset, Bucky could remember his pa coming home with freshly picked flowers for her—it always made her feel better.
Bucky wondered if offering freshly picked flowers to Steven would hold the same effect.
Steven just stared at the flowers for a few seconds, an odd look in his eyes. In all his years of watching him from afar, Bucky had seen lots of looks on Steven’s face, but he didn’t recognize this one.
Bucky, worried he did the wrong thing, contemplated pulling his hand back. But before he could, Steven reached out his hand and accepted the gift.
“My friends call me Steve,” he muttered shyly, inspecting the flowers he was now holding gently, as if they would break if he handled them with anything but the utmost delicacy. Bucky never pegged Steve for a shy guy, so the sight in front of him was an odd one.
Bucky chuckled softly, a teasing smile growing on his face. Time to test the waters. “Yeah? I didn’t know you had any of those.”
Steve huffed a laugh and looked back up to Bucky. “Okay, then technically speaking, just my family calls me that. But maybe I’ll make room for another person on that list, if I'm feeling generous." He gestured to his face, which had Bucky holding back a grimace at its state. "Position is in high demand. Clearly.”
“Oh, I’m sure," Bucky said. "And what’s the name of this person that you’re so graciously considering?”
Bucky could feel the grin taking over his face. Steve was witty for a little guy, but this was what Bucky expected initially.
“You’re going to laugh. His name’s terribly stupid,” Steve said.
“Lay it on me.”
Steve pulled a face as if it pained him to feel the word on his tongue. “James.” He laughed, a real one this time, and Bucky found himself enjoying the sound. “Horrible, right?”
Bucky laughed too—for the first time in awhile—and nodded his head. “Yeah, that’s pretty rough.” He shrugged. “I hear his friends call him Bucky though.”
***
The First Letter
7/3/43
Steve,
It’s been a few weeks since I last saw you, and boy am I surprised to say I miss your ugly mug. Shockingly enough, some of the boys out here are even more hideous than you…who knew that was possible.
While writing this, I’m still in England, and I’ve met some guys that I think you’d really like. They’re interesting, to say the least, with some big personalities. But deep down, they’re stubborn,fearless, and a bunch of softies. You’d have a lot of respect for them. Hell, they even earned mine. It reminds me of you, actually, back in Brooklyn, never scared of a fight. Always standing up for what's right.
I hope you’re not doing that anymore, by the way, or I’ll beat you up myself when I come home. The fighting part—stop that.
On another, brighter note, the women in England are like a different breed. Gosh, Steve, you wouldn’t believe the dames here. They are something else, truly. I think I’m in heaven. They’re a bunch of suckers for the whole soldier get-up. I told you that was a thing.
I don’t know when you’ll receive this letter, or if it’ll even make it to you (I’ve heard boys talking about how letters get lost in transit all the time) but assuming it does, write me back soon, okay? You know I worry, no matter how much you say not to.
Let me know how Becca is, tell her I love and miss her.
Your pal,
Bucky
Chapter 2: Lighter
Summary:
Bucky wanted to use the word beautiful, but he didn’t want to be weird—men didn’t say things like that to other men.
Notes:
Oh how I love writing some pre-serum Steve and Bucky. They get a feature in here!! (spoiler alert; they'll get a feature in every chapter, yay).
Some graphic, and maybe disturbing, images described in this chapter. Not horrible, but just as preparation. <3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
"I hate war as only a soldier who has lived it can, only as one who has seen its brutality, its futility, its stupidity." - Dwight D. Eisenhower
September 1943 - The Reichwald Forest
The war was nothing like how the glorified black-and-white movies or posters portrayed it to be. Fighting for your country didn’t feel fulfilling or noble, and you don’t find yourself to be a better man because of it. You become a killer, a cold-blooded murderer who is hardened to the point of not thinking twice before pulling the trigger that sends a bullet flying through the skull or heart of a Nazi. You don’t feel remorse, or regret. You come to view your enemies as empty bodies that only exist for you to maim. They’re faceless targets that have no meaning in the world past their time of death, the moment they fall to the ground for the last time and draw their final breath.
It helps ease the burden to see things that way when your body count piles up and weights heavy on your shoulders. Bucky would know, because he remembers every kill shot he’s ever sent. He keeps the tally on his lighter, which is running out of open space. Any of the faces that were visible, he remembered those too. Some of them looked at him with agony, others with anger and disgust, but most of them with fear.
Because yes, Nazis are bad, but they’re still people. They bleed, they scream, they beg for mercy. They probably joined the army with the same expectations and reasoning as everyone else. And they were probably met with the same harsh reality that they would’ve been better off at home, reading about the fight.
Bucky figured that they probably also had those nights where they lie awake, restless in a trench that smells like blood and death and shit. A trench where their comrades’ screams are absorbed into the mud where they will die a slow, painful death. They too have probably had to put a bullet into the brain of their friend just so their suffering would finally end. And after that, they’d have to sleep next to the body while the rats fight over the right to eat what remains. That’s just the cold truth of the war and the trenches.
It becomes a game of survival. You’re no longer fighting for your country, you’re fighting for the right to make it to the next day, and the day after that, and then eventually the day where you’ll finally get to go home to who or what you left behind.
Getting back to who he left behind is the only thing keeping Bucky going these days. As he lay awake in the trench, Brooklyn occupied his thoughts. More specifically, a certain someone in Brooklyn occupied his thoughts.
Bucky wondered what Steve was doing right now. Was he sick, hungry, getting beat up in a new alley or parking lot? He worried a lot about how his best friend was doing with nobody to look out for him. His mom died a few months before Bucky had to ship out, so he was living on his own again.
They’d exchanged a few letters, but Bucky was scarce with information about the war and always tried to be lighthearted in hopes that Steve would never have to witness the person he was turning into. Bucky also knew to take what Steve said in his letters with a grain of salt; he always downplayed his issues out of fear of seeming weak, even though he was probably the strongest person Bucky had ever met.
When Bucky told Steve he wanted to be there for him after his mothers passing, Steve told him that he didn’t have to, that everything was ok. But Bucky wasn’t buying it. So the next week, there he was on Steve’s doorstep with his trunk that held all his belongings, ready to move in. At that point in their lives, he knew better than to fall for Steve’s false face of strength he presented to the world.
Although now, without Bucky there, Steve would be completely alone again. And Bucky would give anything to be keeping Steve warm right now instead of shivering in a trench full of piss, shit, and blood. Not to mention the continuous shellings that picked off his comrades one by one. He wasn’t buddy-buddy with all of them—didn’t even like a handful—but it still weighed all the same to see their lifeless eyes staring at him, unseeing. The frightening fact that, at any given moment, that could be him. That his entire life was reduced down to the luck of the draw if he was standing in the wrong place at the wrong time.
It was moments like this that the gravity of his situation dawned on him, and he felt he wanted to cry. Life used to be so simple, his biggest concern being how he’d put the next meal on the table or coming up with a new line to pick up a dame. Bucky hardly recognized the person he’d become.
He used to be so full of life, joy, smiles. Now he was like a shell of that, and nobody here truly knew the person he was—if he even was that person anymore, just after a few months of war. Bucky doesn’t remember the last time he laughed or flirted. He ignored the girls at the bars, too focused on getting so drunk he’d maybe, just maybe, have the opportunity to hallucinate that he was back home with Steve, that nothing had changed, that he never got the letter.
He wondered what Steve would think of him now if he saw him, laying in a ditch covered in dirt and blood, scratching the 734th tally onto his lighter. It only took three months to reach that number.
Another pound was added to his shoulders.
***
October 1943 - Europe
Bucky had been out of the trenches for two weeks now, and he had an impending feeling of doom that his little break wouldn’t be lasting much longer. They needed him out there, Colonel Phillips had said so on more than one occasion.
That was one thing Bucky didn’t understand. If he was so special, if he was such an asset, then what the hell was he doing, rotting away in a trench? His skills had been commended by dozens of high-ranking officers—Jesus, they even made him a Sergeant mere weeks into his time in basic.
Bucky easily picked off Nazi soldiers one by one in the trenches, but he couldn’t help but feel like he could be doing more. Looking at the big picture, a couple hundred Nazi soldiers being eliminated didn’t change much if the guys running things stayed there. Those soldiers would just be replaced, and the cycle would repeat.
With his capabilities, Bucky could be going on covert missions, taking out heads of organizations without ever being spotted. He’d mentioned it countless times, and was shot down at every attempt. He couldn’t help but feel like he was being wasted. Was what he was doing helping anyone at all? Was it even taking the United States closer to victory?
And fine, maybe there were some selfish motives involved; Bucky could go from aimlessly taking hundreds of pointless lives, to taking out only a handful of high status enemies running operations. It was hard not to consider his own morality as he fiddled with his lighter.
He sat alone at the fire, everyone already in for the night, and inspected his kill count using the dull light emitted from the playful flames in front of him. They seemed to dance around each other, flickering in perfect harmony. It reminded Bucky of the old days, spinning around with a dame in perfect rhythm to whatever song was playing. He allowed a small smile to grace his lips as he recalled the way Steve would stand off to the side at the bar, sipping his drink, and rolling his eyes every time Bucky did some extravagant dip or twirl, his own partner either already with Bucky or long gone.
If there was one thing James Buchanan Barnes knew how to do, it was dance.
He doesn’t remember the last time he danced, but he knew he used to do it with grace and fluidity.
Now, Bucky pulled a trigger with that same ease.
He ran his fingers over his lighter, grazing over the rough engravings. He’d had to squeeze in twenty-seven more tallies. That brought his number to 761. Soon enough, he’d be in the thousands. Quadruple digits. It was a large feat.
Bucky didn’t feel any satisfaction at the fact, no pride for the countless lives he’d stolen. He didn’t kill because he enjoyed it, he did it to get to the next day. He did it because he had to.
Out there, there were two options; kill, or be killed. To Bucky, that's as good as having no option at all. Whatever man wanted to get home more would have to prove it through brutality on the battlefield, and Bucky wasn’t afraid of being brutal to get what he wanted.
He flicked open the lighter, looking at the other familiar engraving etched into the metal. A heavy, devastating weight settled on his chest as he gazed at the letters he’d been looking at and tracing with his fingers for years. They were the last bit of purity on this lighter, the only part he hadn’t corrupted. Something that made him feel a little bit more like himself, despite the pressure he felt crushing his heart.
Because there were those letters, the ones that held more meaning to Bucky than anything in the world. The ones he’d recognize from touch alone.
S.G.R.
Before Bucky was a killer, he was a thief.
6 Years Ago…
January, 1937 - Brooklyn, New York
It was the dead of winter, and the snow falling and gracing the ground was no longer fluffy, majestic, or magical. Now, it was dirty slush piled on sidewalks, stuck and soaking into shoes, socks, and the bottom of gentlemen’s pants.
The air no longer held just the right amount of bite to be refreshing, instead it was frigid, and cold, and miserable. People were getting sick, food was running out, and jobs were hard to come across.
It was undeniably the worst part of the year. Bucky, trying his best to stay optimistic, made himself think of the positives. While there was only one that came to mind, it was more than enough to keep Bucky’s bitter feelings for the season at bay. Steve hadn’t gotten sick in over a month. There was no rattle in his chest when he breathed, no coughing fits in the middle of the night, and certainly no upchucking the contents of his stomach. There hadn’t even been a fever.
Sure, Steve had gotten sick in the earlier months of winter, but those had been futile illnesses, more of an annoyance than anything. The late winter diseases were the ones to look out for, the ones that strolled in and plucked the life out of someone with ease. Steve avoiding those was akin to winning a lottery ticket.
So, Bucky had considered himself a very rich man this late winter.
He sat on a towel laid out onto the cool metal of the fire escape, smoking a cigarette. It was all but a stub between this pointer finger and thumb, down to its last dregs of life. He took a long inhale, holding the smoke in his lungs for a few seconds, trying to savor the last of what he’d get from this cigarette. He exhaled lazily, watching the plumes of smoke twirl around each other, keeping one another warm in this weather. They reminded him of himself and Steve, oddly enough. It should be weird that Bucky looked for and found similarities to his friendship in things as futile as ribbons of smoke in the air. But nonetheless, he did.
Bucky came from a long line of smokers. It was a rare sight to catch his father without a cigar dangling between his lips. A whole drawer in his desk was dedicated to his cigar collection. Occasionally, he’d sit a young Bucky on his lap while doing some sort of paperwork, and let him take a drag. Bucky didn’t like cigars, but he loved his pa, and if he was offered something from the man, he’d take it every time.
Bucky’s mother wasn’t as forthcoming with her habit as his father was—being a lady and all—but Bucky had still frequently caught her inconspicuously blowing smoke out the window when she thought nobody was watching. She didn’t smoke cigars, and Bucky figured he’d gotten his tastes from her.
He’d sneak her “feminine” cigarettes from behind the bean cans, and found himself enjoying those much more than his father's choice of smokes. It was a running joke around town that Bucky smoked the lady’s cigarettes, but it worked out for him anyhow in the matter of picking up dames. He could offer a cigarette that they’d actually find appealing.
Ironically, the stub between his fingers was from a pack he’d nabbed from his ma earlier that week. He was visiting home and knew he wouldn’t be able to visit the store for a while, so when he spotted a pack of Marlboros poorly hidden, he couldn’t help himself. Not only did Bucky enjoy the feeling of the smoke filling his lungs, but he also appreciated the way it made the atmosphere smell of his mother.
Now, Becca thought she was slick when she’d hide behind the slide with her friends at the playground during lunch, but Bucky had once been a rebellious teenager and knew all too well what they were passing around. He didn’t condone it, but he didn’t want to embarrass her in front of the other kids, so he let it slide.
Steve would always give him a look of disapproval at his neglect of the situation. Damn goodie-two-shoes had never touched anything tobacco related in his life, saying it was bad for his asthma. Bucky had tried on multiple occasions when they were younger, wanting to witness Steve on nicotine, but was always shot down.
Looking back on it, Bucky was glad Steve refused. He also wished he hadn’t been such a pressuring bastard about it. Thank God Steve wasn’t swayed from his beliefs easily. It was a pain in Bucky’s ass most of the time, but on a rare occasion it could be helpful.
Inside, he heard the echo of hinges creaking, the door to his apartment being opened. Well, his and Steve’s apartment. The ladder must have just gotten home.
Steve had a part-time job working for their local paper. He didn’t actually do any writing—Steve always said Bucky was the more poetic of the two, always taking jabs at him about it. Bucky didn’t really mind. He wasn’t completely sure what Steve meant when he said it, but he laughed along all the same.
No, Steve drew posters, portraits, landscapes, anything he was asked to do, Steve did it, and he did it extremely well.
Even if Bucky disagreed with the political propaganda posters Steve sometimes was assigned to do, he’d take an extra shift, and as always, buy the paper.
He’d meticulously cut out every image, making sure each line was perfectly straight, and tape them all around the apartment. Steve’s drawings were featured on the fridge, the bathroom mirror, cabinet doors, and even around Bucky’s bed. Bucky only hung his personal favorites around his sleeping quarters.
For example, his newest addition to that special selection was a piece Steve did a few months ago. The story he was drawing for was talking about, funny enough, the negative effects of smoking. Ironic , Bucky thought to himself, as he took another drag of his dwindling cigarette.
He could hear Steve rummaging through one of the drawers that belonged to him. They couldn’t afford two separate dressers, so they split the one.
The writer told Steve he had the creative freedom to do whatever he wanted, so long as it was related to the topic of cigarettes and smoking. Bucky fondly remembered the way Steve had rambled on for hours about how he wished she’d just tell him what to draw so he didn’t have to worry about doing the wrong thing. Bucky told Steve to quit his whining, that it didn’t matter what he drew, because anything he did would turn out “nice enough.”
Bucky wanted to use the word beautiful, but he didn’t want to be weird—men didn’t say things like that to other men. Although, he wasn’t afraid to admit to himself that it was the truth. All of Steve’s drawings, even if the subject sucked, were astounding. They left Bucky speechless on every occasion. And maybe under different circumstances, in a different time, Steve could have really been something big. His ability to tell a whole story with nothing but strokes of graphite on parchment was admirable.
After lots of back and forth, Bucky had just sighed and shook his head at Steve’s dramatics. He’d pulled out a cigarette, reached into Steve’s pocket, and despite Steve’s affronted gasp and scowl, snagged his lighter.
Balancing the cigarette between his lips, Bucky flicked open the lighter and brought the flame to the end of his cigarette. During this, Steve had gone uncharacteristically quiet. Registering the odd silence, Bucky peeked over to discover Steve lost in his sketchbook.
He had that look on his face, the one he only got whenever he was super invested in whatever he was drawing. His eyebrows had a worry line between them, and he had his bottom lip drawn between his teeth.
For some reason, Bucky really liked it when Steve made that face.
The next week, when Bucky had gone to buy the paper so he could see what Steve came up with, he was left speechless. Honest to God, Bucky could remember his jaw briefly dropping in shock.
There, taking up half of the front page, was an image of Bucky. Not an image, a drawing, signed by none other than Steven G. Rogers in the bottom right corner.
It was a moment frozen in time; Bucky’s profile, obviously from Steve’s point of view, looking down his nose at the lighter as he used it to light the cigarette between his lips.
Steve perfectly captured the way the flames reflected in Bucky’s eyes, how it sharpened the line of his jaw, the slant of his nose, and the bone structure of his face. He’d captured the way Bucky’s hair was messy after a long work day, some of the longer front pieces falling in front of his eyes.
It was amazing, and Bucky didn’t know why, but his heart swelled looking at it.
Inspecting the drawing closely, he could faintly see an engraving— S.G.R— on the lighter. How Steve was able to catch such minuscule details would always leave Bucky pondering, at a loss for words at his best friend's raw talent. Not even Bucky had noticed the engraving, and he’d been carrying around that damn lighter for a week now.
Still looking at the picture, he had reached into his jacket pocket, feeling for the familiar, cool metal in the shape of a rectangle. Bucky pulled it out, running his fingers over the smooth surface with care.
He had never bothered giving it back to Steve.
It was still placed safely in his jean pocket.
Not only was it useful, but Bucky found himself liking the weight of it, the comfort of knowing he had something reminding him of Steve on him at all times.
Bucky could remember how on that sidewalk, he’d flicked it open, this time taking his time to admire details he’d missed before. He traced Steve’s initials with his thumb, going over them a few times, before snapping the lighter shut and shoving it in his pocket.
With the newspaper still clutched gently in his hand, Bucky had sauntered back to the apartment feeling a sense of peace—of happiness.
Present day, the picture was still in pristine condition, hanging right next to Bucky’s bed frame.
On nights he was restless, Bucky would lay on his side, studying the photo until he fell asleep, rolling his— Steve’s —lighter between his fingers.
“I thought I told you to stop doing that crap,” said a stern voice. Steve’s stern voice, cutting him out of his thoughts.
Bucky started at the abrupt interruption of silence, but easily brushed off his slight flinch, and decided to play the clueless card. He looked over his shoulder up at Steve, feigning innocence. “What crap?”
Steve sighed, clearly tired, both from the day and Bucky’s antics. Steve had known Bucky long enough to see right through his tricks.
“You know what I mean, Buck.” He stepped through the doorway, taking a seat on the open spot of towel next to Bucky. Their knees knocked and shoulders brushed. Neither of them seemed to mind, nor mention it. After all, it was pretty cold out, and they’d done much more to keep warm on the particularly bitter nights. “That is like death in a stick, you idiot,” Steve scoffed.
Bucky just huffed out a breath, giving Steve a playful nudge with his elbow. “Yet here I am,” he said in a singsong tone.
“Not for long if you keep it up,” Steve muttered under his breath.
“How’s this?” Bucky said, crushing what was left of his current cigarette on the metal of the fire escape before tossing it out onto the pavement below them. “Happy? That’ll be my last one of the night, ma ” Bucky teased, smirking. To be fair, Steve did act like a mother hen sometimes.
Following Steve’s resigned glare, they settled into a comfortable silence, each doing their own respective things, yet still in each other's space. Bucky enjoyed moments like this, and was grateful for the simplicity and normalcy of it all.
Times when he could just sit and read, or observe the view while Steve drew. They didn’t need to talk in order to fill any awkward silence—they were happy to relax just like this for hours—only occasionally saying something to the other or having a brief conversation.
Right now, Steve had his knees pulled up, sketchbook supported by his legs as he leaned back on the brick of their building, drawing whatever he had to for his next submission.
Bucky was content to sit there with nothing but his thoughts and the sound of Steve’s light pencil strokes floating through the air. He closed his eyes, committing the sound to memory.
***
October, 1943 - Europe
Bucky woke up to the feeling of a cool breeze on his face. He groaned, pulling the top of his sleeping bag over his head in hopes of escaping the inevitable day ahead of him. He could hear the rustle of his fellow soldiers shuffling around and exiting their tents, and Bucky figured he minds well get up now before one of the idiots came barging in. He was out at the fire late last night and could already feel the effects of his lost sleep.
With a grunt, Bucky pushed down his sleeping bag and stood up all in one fluid motion. He wasted no time pulling on his uniform, which was for some reason freshly cleaned and neatly pressed. Bucky didn’t see the point in going through all the trouble to do that when he was just gonna dirty it up again soon anyways. After all, they were getting new assignments today.
Bucky wasn’t expecting much. By now, he’d learned to not get his hopes up about anything—it was a common theme for him to get let down lately. Steve hadn’t sent him any letters since August, and Bucky had been worried sick about him. There were countless different things that could’ve happened, and none of them particularly reassured Bucky when they crossed his mind.
Even though he stopped getting responses, Bucky still wrote. Some of them he sent, some he kept tucked away in his army-provided journal that all the soldiers got—never to see the light of day. Those ones were for himself, although he'd started being more open in the ones he sent these days too, not expecting them to be seen.
Pushing out of his tent, Bucky was met with a bitter cold. He really wanted to turn around and huddle back up in his sleeping bag that was undoubtedly still warm from his body heat.
Bucky knew that winter was approaching, and he expected the temperatures that accompanied it. Didn’t change the fact that he hated it.
He tried to think on the bright side, at least it wasn’t snowing. The cold Bucky could get by with just some annoyance. But snow, in addition to that, was like Bucky’s own personal hell. Thinking of Steve alone in this weather made him feel horrible.
On his way to Colonel Phillip’s tent to get his assignment, Bucky passed by Dugan and Morita, who were arguing over God knows what. Bucky was certainly not in the mood to get involved in their antics this early in the morning.
Colonel Phillips resided in the biggest tent on base, which also doubled as a sort of central ground for their entire camp. Call it a home base, if you will. In there they received rations, medical care, gear repairments—pretty much any basic essentials. On today’s occasion, Bucky was going there to see where he was being placed for the foreseeable future.
He was really looking forward to it. Why wouldn’t he be? He signed up for this, didn’t he? At least, that’s what he told people, so he has to live up to it. What would Steve think if he knew Bucky didn’t care to protect their country—that he’d rather be home at their apartment? Would he still be a strong man, laying down his life for his country?
Approaching the ginormous tent, Bucky, just shy of the entrance, could overhear the discussion happening within. It sounded pretty heated, and he wasn’t sure if he should walk in right now. He recognized one of the voices as their up-tight Colonel, but not so much the other one.
This voice was British. And undeniably female.
“Colonel Phillips, he is restless. He thinks he should be doing more,” she said, exasperated. “And quite frankly, I agree with him.”
“I am not talking about this with you Agent Carter,” Phillips responded. “We know nothing of what that man is capable of, and I am not willing to take risks on this matter. As of right now, he is doing what we need him to do. He needs to learn to accept that fact, as do you.” He said it with an air of finality, that this is how things were and it’s also how they would stay. It reminded Bucky of the occasional admonishments he and Steve would receive from Sarah whenever they got themselves into trouble.
Bucky made sure to file the last name Carter away into his memories—just in case it ever came up.
Taking the cue that the conversation was over, even though he had no clue what they were talking about, Bucky deemed it alright to enter the tent. Colonel Phillips was sitting at his makeshift desk, and in his peripheral vision Bucky could see the silhouette of Agent Carter making her way out of the tent, not looking back.
Powerful walk , Bucky silently appraised.
“Ah, James Barnes,” Colonel Phillips said, grabbing Bucky’s attention. He was looking down at a piece of paper in front of him, never bothering to glance at Bucky. How he even knew he entered, or who it was, would remain a mystery to Bucky. “What can I do for you today?”
Bucky stopped right in front of his desk. “I’m here to find out my next placement, sir.”
Phillips sighed, seemingly exhausted about something he hadn’t even had to do yet. It frustrated Bucky, to say the least. That he made a big deal out of something as small as checking an assignment—which was not only needed, but was also his job. What, did he just want Bucky to never ask? Bucky was a Sergeant, he had to tell his team where they were shipping out to.
People made no sense sometimes, and Bucky had begun to lose faith in them because of little, stupid things like this.
He stood there, wringing his hands together awkwardly as he watched Phillips shuffle through the mess of papers covering his desk.
“Lets see…” he muttered, pulling a packet from underneath an unruly stack of papers. He started flipping through, scanning each page until he got to the fourth one.
“Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes,” he said gruffly, “stationed in the trenches of Azzano, Italy.”
He shut the packet, placing it back on his desk. For the first time since Bucky entered the tent, Colonel Phillips met his eyes. “You leave in a week, inform your soldiers.”
***
The Second Letter
8/2/43
Buck,
I hope everything is well over there. I’m writing this as quickly as possible, don’t want you to think I’m ghosting you or anything. Although it’s tempting, I must admit.
Becca’s doing good. She misses you, of course. We all do, but we’re managing. I visited her and your ma, and I promise I’m staying out of trouble. Given that I’m pretty much a magnet for it, you have to give me some credit. It’s been difficult, to say the least.
Nonetheless, I’ve been going steady. You know I do fine on my own. I’ve still been making money by selling some of my drawings to the local paper. I know they don’t pay me a bunch, but it’s enough for me to scrape by without your big mouth there to inhale pounds of food. Don’t worry, I’m surviving. You need to be focusing on bigger things than what I’m doing. Trust me, I won’t die without your 24/7 supervision.
Speaking of, out of the two of us, it’s you who ought to stay safe. Don’t make me march up to heaven and rough up a dead man. I’m not kidding, if you even think about dying, I’ll kill you. So don’t.
Write back to me soon. I want to know about a little bit more besides the dames there. Knowing you, of course that’s what you consider the most important. Damn pig.
Tell me stories about your friends, and the places you visit, and your experiences. Don’t you dare cheap out on me James, I’ll know. Just let me live vicariously through you.
Your buddy,
Steve
Notes:
We all know what's coming :(
As a side note, Bucky's thoughts on Nazis aren't meant to be an excuse for anything they have done, as no matter the circumstances, Nazis are horrible people. I am Jewish and have family members who were deeply affected by the Holocaust. I have done extensive research on the topic and encourage anyone who hasn't to learn about it. It is a very important moment in history and in order to avoid it happening again, we must learn from it. That being said, anything said in this chapter is NOT in support of Nazis, and I hope it does not come across as that.
Comments and kudos to feed your author are appreciated :)
Chapter 3: Stars, Guns, and Soldiers
Summary:
When the first bomb hit, invading the security of the night, nobody was ready.
Notes:
TW for some graphic depictions of violence in this chapter.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
November 1943 - Azzano
Being shipped out somewhere new was never exciting. It wasn’t thrilling, or bold, or brave—it was nerve-wracking. Sometimes, the tension curled too tightly in your gut you had no choice but to run off to the side and heave up your lunch behind the nearest tree or bush. Bucky had seen it happen plenty of times. He’d never done it himself, but he could certainly relate to the feeling.
Despite how much they got under his skin—and seemed to enjoy doing so, the company Bucky kept was what made most days bearable for him. It was something he wasn’t used to, the way they poked and prodded at him. He spent pretty much his whole life around Steve, or his family, or Steve’s family. None of them found joy from pushing his buttons the way these guys did. Dugan, Morita, and Falsworth were easy ones off the top of his head—loud, brash, incredibly annoying. Bucky was tempted to commit murder on many occasions, yet he still found himself talking to them more than anyone else.
They drove him crazy most days, but on the ones that felt especially bleak, Bucky was grateful for the noise and life they supplied.
Generally, the 107th Infantry was filled with the usual brand of rigid, self-important soldiers. They barked orders just to hear themselves talk, they disrespected ladies in bars—talked about them even worse, and they always seemed to act like they were owed something from the world. Bucky had learned early on to steer clear of those guys. They were exactly the kind of person that Steve would hate, and would probably pick fights with. On multiple occasions, Bucky wanted to do just that—punch someone right across the face after they made some offhand comment.
He knew he couldn’t do that though, so he stuck around the other guys. They might have been misfits, but Bucky would take interesting people over douchebags any day. Their liveliness reminded him that not everything would be bad forever.
The trenches in Azzano were like every other trench scattered across Europe—muddy, cold, violent, and foul-smelling. None of those were good things, but at this point in the war, Bucky had learned to appreciate what was familiar. Routine, even one this hellish, gave him something to hold on to. A sense of time. A pattern. A reminder that he was still a person, grounded in the real world, with real memories. He had made many in the trenches, and though some of them were the worst of his life, they still anchored him.
Not long ago, when the sun had mostly set past the horizon, painting the sky in soft oranges and muted pinks, it reminded Bucky of the fire escape back home. Steve was probably sitting out there, pencil in hand, sketchbook balancing on his lap, watching the sky with unwavering focus and mesmerisation.
Right before Bucky shipped out, he spent the last of his money on a nice set of colored pencils for Steve. Real high-end stuff. Steve had tried to refuse them, telling Bucky he didn’t need anything fancy, that he was fine with just his graphite pencil and Bucky shouldn’t have gone through the hassle. Typical Steve—never wanting to accept anything from anyone.
But this time, Bucky wouldn’t hear it. He wasn’t going to need the money where he was going, anyway. He never said it out loud, but in the back of his mind, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever make it home. If he didn’t, the least Bucky could do was leave Steve with something worth keeping. Something to remind Steve of him.
Bucky liked to think Steve was out there most nights, drawing that same sky—maybe even thinking of him. These days, the sky felt like the only thread still tying them together. When Bucky looked up, he liked to imagine Steve doing the same. Somewhere, out there, under the same stars.
This was the longest Bucky had gone in pretty much his entire life without communication with Steve. Besides Basic, which was manageable because Bucky knew he’d be going home before shipping out.
Even in the early days of the army, at least Bucky could stay in touch through letters. But now, it was pure silence on Steve’s end—deafening and constant. Bucky tried not to let it eat away at him, but the worry simmered just under his skin, always there. He’d re-read the letter Steve had sent over and over, searching for anything he might’ve missed, some hidden meaning tucked between the lines to serve as an explanation.
They joked about Steve ghosting him—but Bucky knew better. Steve wouldn’t just disappear, not on purpose, and not without a good reason. He could be sick, too tired to even get up and write Bucky a letter. Or he could be too tied up with work, so busy that he hasn’t got the chance to.
Neither of those thoughts were reassuring to Bucky, nor did they serve as a comfort.
By now, the sky was dark, the only thing keeping him company were the stars splattered across the sky. The ones here looked different than the ones in Brooklyn. Or, more-so, the lack of. They were brighter out here. Sharper. And they always seemed to be twinkling. Every night, they showed up like clockwork.
Bucky never had to worry how they were or what they were doing.
They’d been in Azzano for twelve days now, and Bucky had already added forty-two tallies to his lighter. He’d run out of space on the sides, so now they were etched into the bottom—buried, hidden, and never to be seen by the light of day.
He lay on his back in the trench, restless, the lighter in one hand, Steve’s letter in the other. He flicked the flame on, careful to keep it far from the paper as he re-read the words by firelight. The warmth from the flame was fleeting, but familiar, as was the voice he could still hear in his head when he read those letters—sarcastic, stubborn, comforting.
The only sound in his ears was those which came from the crickets scattered about. It was pure, serene, and silent.
Until it wasn’t.
When the first bomb hit, invading the security of the night, nobody was ready.
Without any time to regroup, then came the ambush. There was a torrent of grenades, and bullets, and explosions. Everyone was in a frenzy to grab their gun or anything to defend themselves before they were trampled.
Bucky had already shaken off the initial shock of the attack, and was now taking out any soldier that dared step too close to him. When the area around him was cleared out, he took his opportunity to look around. It seemed as though the German’s plan worked, because the onslaught was never-ending, and didn’t seem to be thinning out.
He kept seeing blasts of blue, which were followed by explosions he’s never witnessed anything like before. Bucky wasn’t sure what it was or where it was coming from, but in his gut he knew it couldn’t have been anything good.
Before he could contemplate too hard on it, Bucky heard footsteps rapidly approaching him. Not one pair, no, he could tell without even looking that it was over twenty. He calmed his breathing, raised his gun, and prepared for the worst.
Bucky saw them turn the corner, had his finger right on his trigger, but he was all of the sudden blinded by a bright blue, shooting down right in front of his feet. It didn’t touch him, but he shot back about thirty feet and slammed into the wall of the trench—his gun flying out of his reach. Struggling for breath, Bucky could see them already closing in on him through the plumes of smoke and dirt raised from the explosion. He reached into his pocket, searching for his knife.
If this was when Bucky went down, so be it, but he refused to go alone. Some of them were coming with him. They didn’t have a choice.
Shame he wouldn’t be able to mark these ones on his lighter.
Two soldiers immediately popped out from the dust and were on him. Bucky got to his feet and swiftly threw the knife with deadly precision, all in one motion. Before it even hit its mark, Bucky was storming after it. The knife embedded itself right into the jugular of the soldier on the left, blood spurted out and he fumbled with his weapon, dropping it in favor of reaching up with his hands to try and staunch the bleeding.
But Bucky was already there. Reaching out, he ruthlessly dragged the knife through the remainder of his throat, pulling it out once he was satisfied the slash would cause immediate death. Thick, warm blood splattered on his face. In this frigid weather, he wasn’t all that repulsed by the feeling of it or the way its temperature heated up his skin..
Bucky whipped around, knife still in hand, to face the other soldier. He was raising his gun, pointing it directly at Bucky.
His finger never made it to the trigger.
Bucky grabbed the gun and roughly pushed the barrel aside, taking large steps towards its owner, who struggled to get his finger in position to fire. Reaching under the gun, Bucky sank his knife into the soldier’s gut, gave it a sickening twist, and dragged it up through his body. He looked into the soldier’s eyes as he sank to the ground, looking back up at Bucky with contempt.
But underneath it all, Bucky could still see it. He’d seen it enough times to always recognize it.
The horror.
Bucky ripped his knife out of the man and repocketed it. He could already hear more footsteps that were about to break through the remainder of the smoke.
Bucky bent down, grabbing the discarded gun of the soldier he just killed. It was completely foreign to him, from the bullets, to the structure. It was like nothing he’d ever seen, and the technology was clearly miles ahead of what the United States currently possessed. This was really, really not good.
Familiarizing himself with his new weapon as quickly as he could, Bucky raised the gun—if he could even call it that—and pointed it at the clearing smoke. He could see the silhouettes of the remaining soldiers, who were all coming for him.
Not taking a second of hesitation, Bucky fired off a shot. The recoil nearly knocked him off his feet, but he adjusted himself to the force quickly, and shot three more times.
They all were carrying the same gun as him, but Bucky used the element of surprise to his advantage. None of them expected him to be fighting back so hard, no less with their own weapon.
Bucky vaporized—this gun vaporized people; the moment the blue blast made contact, the person ceased to exist—wave after wave of soldiers coming after him. Ashes of what once remained contaminated the air around Bucky. The smell of singed flesh filled his nose.
He should be dead by now, Bucky didn’t understand why nobody had killed him yet. He was a skilled fighter and shooter, but against dozens of guys, there was no logical answer for Bucky to still be standing. To still be fighting.
Other than if they wanted him alive.
Which didn’t make sense. The thought sent an uneasy jolt though his body, his brain pausing at the impossibility of it all. Why would they want him alive? Out of anyone, there was no way.
But that hesitation on Bucky’s end, the second he fumbled due to his confusion, that was all it took for him to be caught off guard.
Four men came storming towards Bucky, two of them jumped on him, trapping him to the ground. He struggled for purchase, fighting to land a knee or elbow wherever he could. Bucky even resorted to biting, drawing a surprised yelp from the soldier’s hands he just bit down on with extreme force—enough to draw, and taste, blood.
However, despite his aggression, there was nothing Bucky could do to stop the cloth when it covered his nose and mouth, smuggling him.
This was it, this is how he would die. Having oxygen withheld while he was restrained against the ground. It was pathetic, and quite frankly, a very boring death in Bucky’s eyes. He reached his arms out uselessly, feeling around the ground for his lighter. When his finger hit the edge, Bucky desperately wrapped his fingers around it, drawing it close to his body to pocket.
If this was it, he wanted a part of Steve with him; for all their years of friendship, for all the nights they used each other to keep warm, all the glances that held more weight than they should, and mostly for all that was left unsaid between them. The things Bucky was always too ashamed to come forth about, afraid of what Steve would think.
It only took him a few seconds, though, to understand that his assumed scenario was wrong. So wrong. Because while Bucky could not breathe, he wouldn’t feel his consciousness slipping away so rapidly unless there was some type of drug involved.
And by the time Bucky realized that, it was too late, and in his desperate struggles to take in any oxygen he could afford through the fabric, Bucky had been inadvertently subjecting himself to sedative toxins. Shit.
As his vision was spotting out, Bucky could still faintly hear voices.
“The subject is secured, sir.”
And then nothing.
***
Letter Three
The last one received, but not the last one sent.
9/30/43
Steve,
You couldn’t ignore me if you tried—I’m unfortunately just irresistible. Live with it.
Sorry it’s taken a while to write back. Let me tell you, it’s a little tricky to send a letter when you’re in a ditch with bullets flying overhead. Don’t worry, though. I’m holding up just fine. What else would you expect from me?
Since you asked so nicely, I’ll indulge you: we passed through London, and I got to see the Tower. It looked like something out of those old fantasy books we used to read. You know, the ones Sarah used to buy for every holiday and birthday—stone walls, turrets, the whole nine yards.
I kept thinking how you’d want to draw it. It felt like something meant for your sketchbook.
Speaking of, next time you write, maybe you could send a little drawing? If you’ve got the time, I mean. I know how busy you get. But something from home would do me good. The view from the fire escape, maybe. Or one of your newer submissions. Hell, I’d even settle for a quick sketch of your ugly face.
Everything around here is grey—grey sky, grey dirt, grey moods. It’s like even the sun’s lost interest. Some days, it’s hard not to get swallowed up in the dreariness of it all. I find myself thinking of you thinking of Brooklyn to help brighten the mood.
Having something solid to look at—something real to hold—might help even more.
But no pressure if you can’t. Just a pack of cigarettes will suffice. And before you roll your eyes—I know you just did—I’m not even joking with you. Please, send some Marlboros.
I haven’t had a good smoke in months, and I swear, I miss them more than I miss you.
Your pal,
Bucky
Notes:
Sorry for the shorter chapter here, it was the only good cutoff point
Also sorry for no flashback scene :( didn't fit the vibes lol, this chapter was meant to be short and abrupt
Kudos and comments are always appreciated!
barnaclebeastieboy (Guest) on Chapter 3 Thu 14 Aug 2025 07:47AM UTC
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summersets on Chapter 3 Tue 19 Aug 2025 04:18PM UTC
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