Winifred Barnes was a formidable woman. She had to be, raising a son and three daughters during the depression. Then one day, her son had brought home his new sickly, scrawny, scrappy best friend and that was it, she had two sons. And she had no choice but to become even stronger. Lord knew she needed it, with the trouble the pair of them got themselves into. They’d been inseparable from the start, for better and for worse.
While Winnie would never approve of it, would never accept it, and would certainly never talk about it, she wasn’t naive. She had seen the looks her Bucky gave Steve, and the looks Steve returned and had seen their closeness, inappropriate for men their age. And she knew. She knew that once both her boys were on that battlefield in Europe, fighting the war she had been dreading since 1936, there were only two possible outcomes. Either both her boys would come home, or neither of them would. She knew damn well that one would not return without the other, and she had never been more scared of anything.
The day she opened that tear-stained, blotchy letter, with writing nearly too shaky to be read even with her glasses, had started like every day for the past two years. A sick feeling in her stomach when she woke, the horrible fear of a telegram being delivered to her door, the cautious hope of a letter from either Bucky or Steve, sending her reassurances she knew were lies, but was grateful for anyway. But everyday she felt that way, and everyday she knew her boys continued to defy the odds, so she had no reason to doubt that would still be the case that day.
The envelope had come and it had to be from one of her boys, but she couldn’t recognise the handwriting; this was too scrawly, too messy to be her boys- they were neat in their writing (from endless days of practice at Steve’s sickbed) if not in the rest of their lives. Later, much later, when the sharp stabbing pains of grief were more of an ache, she would think that she should have realised then, what had happened. Of course, Steve’s handwriting would be wrong, when he was missing half of himself.
Winnie,
Ma. Fuck. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.
They're gonna send you the telegram, and that stupid letter, but you deserved to hear it from me first.
It's my fault, all my fault. It should have been me and you have to know how much I wish it was. I’m sorry I didn’t send him home when I had the chance. I was selfish and now he’s gone.
Bucky Buck fe he he fell and I couldn’t catch him and I’m so fucking sorry. All he wanted was to get home and see you all again. He never said, didn’t talk so much anymore but I knew all he thought about was coming home, hugging you and Pa George again, plaiting Becca’s hair for her, swinging Alice around, bickering with Ruth. But he’s gone Ma, he’s really gone. And I don’t know how to continue this war without him. You’ll see all the bullshit about me being the leader, being Captain America, but it was really all Bucky. I didn't have the first clue how the war worked, not really, it was Buck who led the men, at first, Buck who got people to trust us, he’s the one who deserves all the medals, not me. He deserves d more. I want need you to know that. I’m so sorry.
I'm gonna send you his things back, they deserve to come home at least, they don’t belong here in all this shit , this mud.
Fuck. I’m sorry. There ain’t a body. I can’t bring him home like he deserves. I’m so fucking sorry. I tried, I promise I tried so hard, but I wasn’t quick enough and he fell and now there’s nothing left. I really did try to bring him home, he had so many plans for after the war. But this is where the war ends. I know there’s no forgiving me, and this will probably make everything worse for you, but you were right, what you thought you saw. I know you never said anything and I can never tell you how grateful I am was for that, but I need you to know that so you can know that I really did try to save him. You can’t hate him for it, please, I’m begging you, it was all my fault anyway, you know Bucky, he was the best man, and he wasn’t bad . He wasn’t wrong .
It doesn’t matter anymore anyway. It I think it was quick and he won’t have suffered at all. He’ll be happy up there now, watching over you all, keeping you all safe. I probably won’t be joining him up there when my time comes because I’m not gonna stop until all the bastards who killed him are dead or captured but it will be worth it. This war has ruined me but it couldn’t ruin him, I promise. He was quieter and sadder but He was still my your Bucky.
I know even if I get back, you won’t want to see me so I’ll say it now, thank you for everything you did for me since Ma died. Thanks for giving me the best pal a guy could have asked for. I’m so fucking sorry this is how I paid you back for it all.
Love,
Steve
Winnie felt the grief in two waves. One overwhelming, gushing, drowning wave of agony for her boy, her baby boy, her first child. She supposed that was the reason she had never heard the word to describe a parent who lost their child. No amount of words in the English dictionary could possibly come close to measuring her pain. Even breathing felt like an impossible task right then, never mind the idea that she would at some point be expected to smile again. If she never smiled or laughed in a world without her Bucky, it would be too soon. Lord knew how she would tell her daughters, those bright, vivacious girls, so ready to face the world despite everything holding them back, buoyed by their brother’s attitude and encouragement. Her heart quite possibly would not be able to take the pain of their heartbreak too. She couldn’t even bear to think of her husband’s reaction: quiet, scarred George, who had been just like Bucky before the Great War had stolen all the best parts of him.
The second wave hit gasping seconds later, for that was the moment she knew she had lost both her sons, even if one physically was still on earth. She couldn’t help the feeling that it was a matter of when, not if, the news broke about the death of Captain America (she received the telegram a week after the letter, just before the news broke to the papers. He’d put her down as his next of kin- by God, that shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did. She never got the chance to tell Steve that she didn’t blame him, not really (and she quickly silenced the part of her that so wanted to) - that did hurt as much as she expected it to). So she would mourn both boys now, the futures they should have had, with wives or not, children or not. She would have turned a blind eye for the rest of her life to their dalliance if it meant they would at least be there. But that was impossible now. So, she would celebrate and defend her boys against any who dared question them until her last breath. She would remember them. By God, would she remember them. Her boys who had lived for each other, and ultimately died for each other.
(Winnie would never know this, but Steve would eventually know that she had never blamed him when 68 years later, an 86 year old Rebecca Barnes- Proctor would hand Steve Rogers the letter Winnie had written back to him but had never had the chance to send [“Stevie, it wasn’t your fault. Whatever happened, I know you tried your best to bring him home. We need you to try as hard to bring yourself home.”]. He would read it, and cry and cry and cry, as he received absolution from the only person he thought could give it to him (and also wish so desperately that he could go home, but home no longer existed). Winnie would never know this, but a year later, both her boys came home from the war.)