Red
The days dragged on, blurring together with the constant grind of training, working, waiting . Every day that Bucky opened his eyes to the same drab ceiling of the same canvas tent had him feeling a little emptier, and every day that passed had him missing Steve a little more. Ration deliveries had slowed to a trickle, and Bucky could only hope that his letter had made it out to Steve, safe at home in the old New York apartment that Bucky missed so much.
That slowing of ration deliveries had brought with it something else — a nervous anticipation hovering in the air, a sense of disquiet that was hard to shake. Even before the orders came to move out, Bucky could tell they’d be leaving, and that it wouldn’t be to anywhere good.
“Where d’you think they’ve got us headed?” Gabe asked nobody in particular as the men worked to clear out of the temporary barracks, loading their meager belongings into the lumpy canvas backpacks they’d just been issued. He was having some difficulty fitting the pack of smokes he’d somehow gotten a hold of next to the haphazard selection of tools and first aid supplies the army required them to carry.
“Almost feel like it’s best not to know,” Fred replied. He’d already assembled most of his gear and was lingering over his few personal effects, holding a neatly tied bundle of letters in one hand and what looked like a pocket-sized photo in the other. “Just gotta follow orders and hope for the best, right?”
“Yeah, guess so,” Gabe conceded, swinging the pack he’d finally managed to close over his shoulder. “Just hope it’s somewhere warm. A guy could get used to the weather we’ve been having lately!”
Bucky glanced back over at Fred as they finished readying themselves to move out. He’d finally relented and tucked the letters into his pack, but he was still holding tight to the photo, lingering on it like he was reluctant to take his eyes off it. While Bucky couldn’t see the picture, he knew Fred well enough that he was able to guess with confidence what it was.
“It… it won’t be the end of the world, y’know,” Bucky offered as the space emptied out and he found himself alone with Fred and the rows of empty cots. The words came out a little forced, and Bucky quickly tried to rephrase. “I mean, it’s just a move. Dunno where they have us going, but wherever it is, we’ll still have to get mail there, right? So you’ll still… hear from her.”
Fred smiled softly. “Yeah. Thanks, Barnes.” He finally looked up from the photo in his hands, expression going mischievous. “And hey, that’s good for you, too. Still waiting on a letter from your mystery girl?”
Bucky tried to laugh it off, but it sounded hollow even to his own ears. “Aw c’mon, you ever gonna drop that?”
“Nope!” Fred said pleasantly, swinging his pack over his shoulder. “Told you I was gonna figure you out, and I’m nothing if not a man of my word.”
Bucky was saved from having to reply when a call sounded from outside, ordering the unit to line up. Bucky took the opportunity to change the subject, offering Fred, or maybe himself, some small measure of reassurance before they headed off into uncertainty.
“I bet it’ll be fast, too. We’ll be at the next base before we know it.”
Fred nodded, but Bucky could see the worry in his eyes, the same worry he was sure was reflected in his own. Before they left, he watched Fred carefully tuck the photo into the chest pocket of his uniform, settling it right above his heart.
Bucky was right about one thing — it was fast. He’d barely been able to comprehend it, how things went from fine to so very wrong, so quickly.
They were moving inland, toward the sun as it climbed into the early morning sky. It should have been beautiful, Bucky thought, but instead the light was blinding — between the sun streaming down from above and its bright reflection in the dew that covered the expansive green fields they hiked past, it was hard to see much of anything at all. The weather that had been pleasantly temperate through the late winter was heating up as spring moved towards summer, and Bucky spent most of the trek listening to Dugan and Morita bicker about the heat while trying to ignore the way sweat was running down his own brow and into his eyes.
“Quit falling behind me, asshole, the sun’s getting in my eyes!”
“Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t realize Uncle Sam sent me out here just to shield you, personally, from the sun…”
Bucky opened his mouth to say something, whether to tell them to cut it out or join in on the argument, he wasn’t sure. All he knew was that, before he could speak, his thoughts were scattered, drowned out by a loud, rattling noise echoing from a growth of trees on the opposite side of the field.
“Is that…”
Gunfire, sounding off somewhere far too close for comfort. Bucky didn’t have time to verbalize the rest of the thought before all hell broke loose.
The men broke for the edge of the clearing they’d been passing through, abandoning Jeeps and packs of supplies as they fled. Bucky followed suit, diving behind a low rock wall that had probably once separated one farmer’s fields from another’s but now served as the only cover Bucky could find from enemy fire. He readied his rifle without even really thinking about it, all the training he’d been put through taking over as he aimed across the clearing at the sparse growth of trees on the other side. In the harsh morning light, Bucky could only guess at whether his shots would hit their mark.
The skirmish seemed to last forever, gunfire echoing back and forth as smoke rose heavy and thick in the air, further obscuring Bucky’s vision until all he could sense were chaos and his own raw fear. Adrenaline was roaring through him like wildfire, screaming at him simultaneously to tense up and freeze and to turn tail and run. He responded by gluing his finger to the trigger of his gun, firing wildly at the other side in some desperate attempt to ensure that he made it through this alive.
Even as time slowed down and stretched impossibly thin, Bucky knew only a few minutes could have passed since the first shots — once the sounds of the bombardment died down and the air began to clear, the blinding sun had barely shifted its position in the sky. Still, in just that small expanse of time, Bucky’s world seemed to have changed completely. Gone was the atmosphere of near-tranquility, the sunny day and soft grass smelling sweet and heralding the approach of summer. Everything now stank of dust and sweat, a heavy undertone of smoke still lingering low and heavy in the air. The field before them was littered with bright patches where the sun glinted off the dewy ground a little more intensely than it had before. Focusing on one of them, Bucky could make out a slick red tinge staining the green of the grass. He suddenly felt very cold.
Someone was giving orders, but Bucky couldn’t begin to comprehend them over the ringing in his ears. It was only when someone clapped him on the shoulder that he realized he was still staring down the barrel of his rifle, frozen in position and ready to fire. He glanced sideways to see Gabe staring at him with worry. Gabe mouthed something—or maybe just said it, Bucky couldn't tell—that looked vaguely like you okay?, and Bucky was just barely coherent enough to nod.
He slowly began to take stock of what surrounded them on his side of the wall. Most of his unit was still huddled in defensive positions behind the makeshift barrier, which had been dented in a few places by enemy fire and was beginning to crumble. Every pair of eyes he met was wide and unmistakably terrified, an expression Bucky was sure was reflected back to them on his own face. His tight chest loosened a little as he took stock of Dugan and Morita, spooked but safe and leaning against the rock wall. Most of the familiar faces he’d come to know during his time at basic and overseas were discernible somewhere in the huddled group, the realization of which also helped abate some of the tension coiling tight in Bucky’s body. Even turned to look at his fellow soldiers, he couldn’t purge the sight of the field from his mind, the glaring red stains standing out from the grass with sickening clarity. He knew the stains were too close to the path their unit had been charting to have come from anyone but one of their own.
Suddenly Bucky’s stomach dropped.
“Where’s Fred?” He couldn’t hear the words come out of his own mouth, but he must have said them. Gabe and a few other men turned their gazes towards him, saying nothing, just looking at him with those same fearful eyes. “Did anyone — did anyone see him? Where’s —”
The reappearance of Gabe’s hand on his shoulder silenced him. Bucky gaped at him, open-mouthed, but suddenly couldn’t find a single word to say. Fred had to be here, somewhere among the soldiers sheltering nearby. He’d been right in front of Bucky before things started to go wrong. He couldn’t be… but the broken look in Gabe’s eyes seemed to confirm exactly what Bucky feared. Gabe nodded almost imperceptibly to a huddled group of soldiers kneeling over what must have been several men lying crumpled in the wet grass behind the low rock wall. Their packs were open, first aid supplies strewn about in panicked disarray. Somewhere in the chaos Bucky picked out a familiar head of light hair, standing out in stark contrast with the red now bleeding through it. Bucky jerked forward, but Gabe’s hand, still resting on his shoulder, held him back.
“No!” Bucky kept trying to pull forward from his slumped position against the wall, shrugging Gabe’s hand off his shoulder. He didn’t get far before more hands started gripping his arms, holding him back from charging the field medics circling Fred’s limp body. Restrained, he could only watch as the flurry of activity around Fred grew more frantic, and then, all of a sudden, stopped. Bucky knew before the medics even turned around that he was gone.
Things happened fast after that. Something about hostiles and mobilization and calling for help and a thousand other things that seemed far less important than the bodies on both sides of the little wall lying far too still on the ground. As the men around him sprang back into action, Bucky rose to his knees, crawling on shaking legs to Fred’s side. Someone had taken his pack, Bucky realized, no doubt searching for the first aid supplies that had proved to be so wholly useless in actual practice. All those letters Fred had held onto so closely were gone, probably tossed out all over the field as someone tried to get at his pack’s more useful contents. Logically, Bucky understood, but he couldn’t suppress a little spark of defensiveness at the thought. If those had been his letters —
But they weren’t. They were from Fred’s girl, back in New York, probably still busy planning a wedding that wouldn’t ever happen.
Even when the call came to move out, Bucky couldn’t quite bring himself to tear his eyes from his friend’s face, resting still and silent against the soft grass. This just wasn’t fair . Not to Fred. Not to his girl back home.
His girl. Bucky remembered with a jolt the conversation they’d had that morning, the reverence in Fred’s eyes as he’d played with the little pocket-sized photo in his hands. Without even really thinking about it, Bucky reached out to pat the pockets of Fred’s uniform, searching out the paper he’d so carefully tucked there just a few hours prior. Fred’s pockets were empty, though, turned inside-out by well-intentioned hands searching for the first aid supplies that hadn’t been able to save him. Bucky frantically pawed through the detritus of Fred’s scattered pack on the ground, heart pounding insistently with the residue of panic until he found it — a thin square of paper, half buried under a layer of kicked-up dirt. He picked it up with shaking fingers, turning it over in his hands.
“Barnes!”
Bucky jumped. Someone behind him was calling for him, probably trying to get him to move out with the remainder of the men, to take care of the actual duties he had instead of sitting frozen in mute horror at his friend’s side. Taking a deep breath, Bucky reached once more towards Fred’s lifeless body, holding the tiny photo with as much reverence as he could in his trembling hands until it was tucked back where it belonged. In the pocket just above Fred’s heart.
Sparing his friend one final glance, Bucky struggled to his feet, a cavernous emptiness blooming in his chest as he and the other men forced themselves onward.
Nobody talked much that night. They’d made it to a camp just before the sun went down, streaking the sky bright red as it sank beneath the distant hills. When they’d arrived at the base they’d had post waiting for them, but even that, usually the definitive marker of a good day, failed to lift anyone’s spirits much. Even Bucky’s own haul of mail—a nondescript tan envelope with familiar, neat handwriting gracing the front—didn’t spark the relief he’d thought it would. He was caught in the pull of his spiralling thoughts, the day’s events replaying over and over in awful detail behind his eyelids.
Bucky and a few others sat up late into the evening, not talking, just silently reading over their letters and surreptitiously working through the pack of smokes Gabe had managed to carry in from the last camp. Bucky’s mind was still stuck on Williams, on the photo Bucky had left tucked in his jacket pocket. Bucky had tried not to look at it, thinking it was hardly his place, but he’d still caught a glimpse of Fred’s girl before placing the photo back where it belonged.
Rose was beautiful, with dark skin and soft features, a delicate frame that seemed at odds with the bright glint in her eyes. Something about her slight build and smart eyes was so familiar that it made Bucky ache all the more to think about her — and about Williams, how deeply, stupidly in love he’d obviously been.
He glanced down at his own letter, sitting in his lap still unopened. It was from Steve, as he’d known before he’d even read the return address pencilled neatly in the corner. Even redacted to hell and back, Bucky knew the shapes of Steve’s steady penmanship as easily as he would have known his own.
Just as he could see the writing in front of him, he could see Steve with perfect clarity in his mind, as clearly as though he had a photo of his own tucked away in one of his uniform pockets. He could see Steve’s skinny frame, his nose all crooked from one too many back-alley fights. His eyes, the way they very nearly sparkled when he got going talking about something he really cared about. His delicate hands, perpetually smudged with charcoal from one art project or another. What he hadn’t seen quite so clearly until now was himself — faceless, featureless above the collar of a uniform. Just another soldier, only here now, holding Steve’s letter in his still faintly trembling hands, by sheer luck.
Anything could happen to him out here, and Steve would never hear from him again. It was something Bucky had known since he’d received the telegram informing him he’d been drafted and had looked up from reading it to see Steve’s face, just as stricken as his own. He just hadn’t fully realized what that meant until gunfire had started ringing across the field that morning and he’d found himself on the receiving end of it. The worst part of it all was, Steve wasn’t his girl. Bucky couldn’t keep a photo of him in his uniform and play shy when the other guys teased him about it. He couldn't hold onto the idea of some post-war wedding to look forward to when this was all over. And he couldn’t even list Steve as his next of kin, couldn’t guarantee him something to live on or even get someone to inform him if something happened.
All he had were letters, desperate attempts to communicate how much Steve really meant to him without so many words. If something happened to him and he really never made it home, he’d at least want to have given Steve that. He drew in a shaky breath and began to open the envelope.
Halfway through reading Steve’s letter, Bucky’s face started to hurt. It took him a moment to realize why; it was because he was smiling. He tried to hide it, guilt bubbling up as he realized this was hardly the time or place, but he couldn’t help it. His chest was still tight and his shoulders still felt bent under the heavy weight of everything he’d already seen and everything he knew was yet to come, but half a letter from Steve and he was already smiling . Picking up a pencil and drafting a reply should have been the easiest thing in the world.
Dear Steve, he began.
I know, I know, I’m a sap, but it’s so good to hear from you. I really needed to hear your voice - or, well, close enough. It’s crazy how quick things can change out here. It can get ugly fast, and there’s nothing you can even do but watch. Never thought I’d actually miss spending a summer at the docks, but at least there the most I’d ever have to wonder about was how big the next shipment would be, how sore I’d be the next day. Not…
Bucky paused. As much as he wanted to share the details of what had happened that day with Steve, to share everything about his life with him, he couldn’t bring himself to write the words. Steve’s cheerful suggestion that they’d have the guys over for dinner once all of this was over, once everything was back as it had been before, put a lump in his throat. He knew now that nothing would ever go back to the way it had been. But maybe it would be easier to keep pretending that it would.
It was just a small omission, really. Nothing compared to the feelings Bucky had already been hiding.
...well, it doesn’t matter. I know you wanted details, but there’s not a whole lot to tell. Turns out camping is actually pretty boring - who knew?
Speaking of, remember when we used to say we’d get out of the city one day, when you were feeling well enough and money wasn’t tight? Get a tent and go out west, maybe see the Grand Canyon while we were at it? Maybe we take a rain check on those dinner plans and go do that instead, once I’m back. It’d be nice to spend some time outside without a gun strapped to my back. Just a thought.
Glad to hear you’re getting some use out of my coat, by the way. Can’t have you catching a cold and getting in the way of that Grand Canyon trip. (Seriously, though. Be careful. Winters are always the worst, but you know how bad your asthma gets in the spring.) Take care of yourself, especially now that I’m not there to do it for you. Or, as you’d say, “smother me ‘til I can’t breathe, and not because of the asthma, dammit.” Same thing I guess, but you gotta admit my way has more of a ring to it .
I know you’re gonna worry about me too, but I wish you wouldn’t. I’m okay, really. That don’t mean you can’t write me all the time, though. Hearing from you was the best thing that’s happened in a while. Beats camping, that’s for sure. I want to hear all about what’s going on in New York, okay? Spare no details - I gotta get caught up on everything I’m missing. Really hope to hear from you soon.
Yours,
Bucky