Chapter Text
Bucky got his letter from the United States Military telling him to go off and shoot and get shot at in March of 1943, but that wasn’t the letter that destroyed his life. He didn’t get that one until more than a year later, August 1944, just after the Allies had liberated Marseilles.
He was drinking wine in some little hole-in-the-wall tavern with Dugan and Ralston and one of the French infantrymen - Dernier, that was his name, and he was one hell of a fighter - and for the first time since landing in Europe, Bucky was feeling optimistic. They were well on their way to pushing the Nazis out of France, the wine was good (he would’ve thought it was impossible to get anything that wasn’t vinegar, surely the Germans would’ve taken it all, but Dernier had laughed and said, “We French, we have our ways”), and he could relax in good company without worrying about getting shot. Marseilles itself was nice, too, with its old-world grandeur that even the war hadn’t quite managed to destroy, and the bright blue water of the Mediterranean lapping up against it. Maybe he’d take Steve here someday, after they won the war. Steve would love it - he’d want to sketch everything, and maybe try working with oils or pastels. Bucky would make sure to get him some. They’d come in the winter, so Steve’s frail body could get a rest from New York’s cold winds and grey skies. Bucky hated how miserable Steve was in the cold, how he always shivered and never seemed to stop coughing. The south of France would be good for him.
“Thinking about your girl again, Barnsey?” asked Ralston, shoving the bottle across the table at Bucky. “You’ve got that dreamy look in your eyes again.”
Bucky laughed. “You would, too, if you had a girl like Stella. Prettiest lady in all of New York State, and a real firecracker, too.”
“And you keep a picture?” asked Dernier slyly. “One that you keep in your uniform directly over your heart?”
He had a picture, but he would never let anyone know about it, and only looked at it when he was sure no one would see. “Nah,” he said, and grinned. “A picture too easy to lose. Besides, I don’t need one. All I have to do is close my eyes and I can see her clear as day.”
Dugan shook his head in mock disgust. “He’s a real romantic, Barnsey is. Keeps every single one of his girl’s letters and reads them over and over again. It’s enough to make you sick.”
“Ah, but romance is such a beautiful thing.” Dernier raised his glass. “To Sergeant Barnes, and his beautiful Stella.”
“To Stella,” echoed Bucky, and clinked their glasses together before tipping the rich, dry wine into his mouth.
It was past midnight by the time they stumbled out of the tavern, but a few revelers were still making their way through the streets, singing snatches of song and stopping long enough to kiss anyone they passed on both cheeks. Bucky could hear music drifting out of open windows into the warm late summer air. The war wasn’t over yet - they still had to take Berlin and Hitler - but Marseilles wanted to seize this moment of victory. Bucky did, too. He was loose-limbed and fuzzy-headed from the wine, and returned all of the embraces and kisses he got. He was sure they’d win the war soon - had to, when they were pushing through France and the Ruskies had stopped Hitler in the East. Maybe in just a few more months this would all be over, and he’d be able to go back to Steve.
Their unit had set itself up in what had once been a grand old hotel, and probably would be again once the damage from the war was cleaned up. Most of the men had just set their cots up in the lobby, not wanting to bother with anything else. Some of the men were asleep, curled up beneath their blankets, but a fair number were still awake. Bucky spotted Juniper and Falsworth, one of the British soldiers they’d met, hunched over a card game and passing a cigar back and forth.
“Hey, fellas,” said Juniper, glancing up. He jerked his head over to where Bucky had set up his cot. “Mail finally caught up. There’s a letter for you, Barnes.”
Bucky grinned and laughed along with the good-natured ribbing about getting something from his “sweetheart” and his “gal” - true enough, really, just not in the way they all thought - and sat down on his cot, reaching for the envelope. It was crumpled and smeared with dirt. Probably sent out weeks ago, and was only now catching up with him.
Only - he didn’t recognize the handwriting that that addressed the letter to James B. Barnes. It didn’t have Steve’s elegant curves or Rebecca’s no-nonsense sharp edged lines, and there was no one else who’d ever bothered sending anything to him. The return address was from Brooklyn, though, sent from an M. McIntyre who lived on Montague Street. It had to be from Madeline McIntyre, then. Bucky remembered her - she lived in a tenement house a few doors down from Steve with her older brother, worked as a secretary at some law firm or other. She’d liked Steve well enough, but she’d never had much to say to Bucky. He couldn’t think of any reason that she’d be writing to him all the way over here.
Any reason, except for one.
Bucky’s stomach clenched and his fingers tightened on the envelope. He wanted to burn it. He wanted to throw it away. He didn’t want to open it and see what the letter said, didn’t want to know for sure. As long as he didn’t open it, he could keep pretending that everything was all right. Steve was back in New York taking his art classes and waiting for Bucky, and everything was all right.
In the end, though, he finally tore open the envelope, pulled the letter out, and read.
Madeline McIntyre had tried to be kind. Such a kind-hearted young man, she wrote, and, we’re all so very sorry. It made Bucky sick with anger. Of course everyone had loved Steve: brave, generous, idealistic Steve; but they hadn’t been willing to take care of him the way Buck would have. If Bucky had been there, he’d’ve done anything to make sure Steve got the medicine he needed. Anything. But everyone else, they’d just stood by and watched Steve get pneumonia and then get sicker and sicker until he finally slipped away, that frail body unable to contain such a strong spirit -
And then anger fell away, leaving him cold all over, and empty of everything except for the overwhelming weight of grief.
The night before he’d shipped out, Steve had threaded his slender artist’s fingers through Bucky’s hair and pulled him down into a kiss. Don’t die, he’d whispered against Bucky’s lips, fingers tightening painfully against Bucky’s scalp. Just please don’t die, don’t leave me here alone, and Bucky had answered, ‘Course I won’t, Stevie, you know I’d never leave you for good, and didn’t say a word about how thankful he was that Steve stood absolutely no chance of ever getting into the army.
Bucky had managed to stay alive on Europe’s front lines, but Steve was the one who had slipped away,s betrayed by his own frail body.
Steve was gone. Steve was lost to him.
Someone was talking to him, saying his name. “Hey Barnes, you okay? Barnes?” A hand on his shoulder, shaking gently at first, then more roughly. “Barnes?”
Bucky lifted his head and stared blankly up at Dugan. The other man must have seen something on his face, because he let his hand drop down and took a step back.
“Something happen back home, Barnes?”
And all Bucky could say was, “Steve.”