The Edge
For all the chaos that had upended Bucky’s life over the past few months, there were still little elements of normalcy, strange in their contrast with the wild unfamiliarity of day-to-day life. Like now, in some boarded-up little town on the edge of the world, miles and miles from anything he’d ever known, Bucky found himself sitting in an honest-to-god bar, enjoying a drink. It was so normal it was almost laughable.
Still, despite the carefree atmosphere around him, Bucky was having a hard time actually relaxing. He knew they were only here because they were gearing up to invade Italy, to move in across the water and fight tooth and nail to claim the beaches. Knowing what lay ahead had him feeling like he was constantly on the edge of a precipice, just waiting for the moment of inevitable freefall.
So Bucky was already in a mood, and the poster facing him from behind the bar certainly wasn’t helping. He glowered at it over the rim of his glass as he drank, and the perfect face of Captain America glared right back at him, sharp-eyed and square-jawed. Insufferable.
It wasn’t that Bucky wasn’t happy for Steve. He was, really. From the way it sounded, Steve had exactly the kind of job he’d always wanted; a creative outlet, a chance to travel, and enough money not to have to worry about his next meal. It was the kind of thing they’d always talked about in their half-whispered somedays and what-ifs that existed somewhere between casual escapism and real desires, almost plans. They’d pick up and leave the city, go out west. Steve would draw, and Bucky would find something to do, though that part wouldn’t matter too much - wherever Steve went, he’d follow, and that was that. But now Steve was out living the life they’d both half-dreamed of, and Bucky wasn’t even on the same continent. No matter how proud Bucky was of Steve, that still stung a little.
Bucky raised his glass again, looking at Captain America as though daring him to protest. The poster met him with that same accusatory glare, telling him in bold letters to SUPPORT AMERICAN TROOP S and offering him nothing else helpful whatsoever.
“Really preaching to the choir there,” Bucky couldn’t resist muttering into his drink.
“You alright, sarge?”
Bucky jumped as Dugan’s voice boomed to him from across the bar. The other men couldn’t have heard Bucky’s remark; they’d all just finished up a rousing rendition of some entirely incomprehensible drinking song over which Bucky didn’t even think he would have heard nearby artillery fire. Still, when you spent this much time living and fighting alongside the same people, you started to pick up on things about them that ordinary acquaintances wouldn’t. Bucky’s sour mood was apparently one of those things, a realization that only served to sour his mood further.
Bucky tried a curt nod, hoping that would end the line of questioning, but no such luck. A few men, Dugan, Jones, and Morita among them, drifted away from the crowd gathered by the old, out-of-tune piano in the corner of the room, coming to sit beside Bucky at the slightly dingy bar.
“Said I was alright,” Bucky grumbled halfheartedly. In spite of himself, he was grateful to have the company, at least as an alternative to his spiralling thoughts.
“Never said you weren’t,” Dugan said lightly. “Maybe I just wanted a drink.”
“Right.”
As the other guys set about ordering drinks, Bucky went back to staring gloomily at the poster on the wall. It didn’t even look like Steve’s art - it was too flat, too one-dimensional, a mere copy of all the wartime propaganda he’d seen in the past few months. Something about it just rubbed Bucky the wrong way, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on what.
“That guy bothering you?” Morita asked, moving to sit at the stool next to Bucky.
“Huh?” Bucky blinked at Morita, who glanced meaningfully at the poster. Bucky realized he might not have been as subtle in his distaste as he’d thought. “Oh. Real funny.”
“Just saying,” Morita laughed. “You’ve been staring at that poster all evening. What’d that guy ever do to you?”
Something uncomfortable twisted in Bucky’s gut. He knew it must be showing on his face, as Morita quickly recoiled, turning his attention back to his drink instead of Bucky and leaving him guilty on top of morose. Somewhere under all the bitterness, Bucky knew that he had no right to be taking this out on his… well, he supposed, his friends. Friends that couldn’t possibly know about Steve, or the tumult of emotions Bucky was feeling, seeing this piece of Steve casually on display somewhere so far from home. Friends that certainly couldn’t know about the envelope currently stuffed in Bucky’s pocket, addressed to him from Steve, waiting unopened. The fear running rampant through Bucky’s mind of the tangible realities of dying, of being forgotten - of Steve forgetting him - shouldn’t have been anyone’s problem but his own.
“‘Captain America,’ huh?” Jones piped up, unperturbed by Bucky’s stony silence. “That’s a new one. Didn’t realize captains got the stars and stripes as regulation attire. I oughta work on getting a promotion.”
“Well, he is the ‘Star-Spangled Man with a Plan,’” Morita joined in, reading the tagline from the bottom of the poster. “Guess he’s gotta have an outfit to match.”
“What a load of bull,” Dugan grumbled. “I’d like to put a gun in that guy’s hand, show him what it’s like to storm a beach. Then maybe he’d think twice about tryin’ so hard to get recruits. Right, Barnes?”
Bucky made as noncommittal a sound as he could manage. He wasn’t any more of a fan of the ridiculous propaganda than the next guy, but just knowing it was somehow connected to Steve stopped him from fully joining in on the mockery. Dugan pushed on, undeterred.
“I mean, we’ve hardly seen anything yet. Nothing like what we’ve got coming. You guys think the ‘star-spangled man’ has a plan for that too?”
The laughing, the joking, the thoughts of Steve - it was all too much for Bucky to take. Before he even realized what he was doing, he shot to his feet, chair scraping roughly against the scuffed wood floor as he stood. Sparing one last glance for the poster on the wall, he turned around and headed for the door. He could feel several pairs of eyes following him out, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that one of them belonged to Captain America, staring reprovingly at his back as he left.
There was something eerie about this little town in the early twilight, Bucky thought as he made his way through its narrow streets. He hadn’t seen many populated areas since he’d arrived overseas - it was mostly fields, farmland - but this village almost seemed emptier than all that open space. The darkened windows and boarded up doors that met him at every turn just served to remind him of what should have been, of everything already lost.
Bucky slowly wound his way back to camp, where the looming shadows of green canvas tents and parked transport vehicles stood out starkly against the lingering evening light. Somehow, even the long, skeletal shadows of the camp felt more familiar and inviting than the ghostly town he’d just left. Bucky didn’t know exactly when normalcy and chaos had swapped places in his mind, but somewhere along the line he’d gotten more comfortable in the rigid structure of a military camp than in the casual pleasure of sitting in a bar with his friends. Maybe it was that constant, precarious fear, reigniting every time he tried to scan across the water for land on the other side only to be met with fog and the slowly churning waves. Or maybe he just belonged here, was just always meant to fight, whether he wanted to or not. Thinking about it came dangerously close to solidifying the sourness of his mood into actual nausea. He wanted to go home.
He brushed into his canvas-walled barracks and sat down heavily on his cot. Home . That meant… New York, with Steve. But Steve wasn’t even in New York anymore. He was out seeing the world, and certainly not in the same hellish way that Bucky was. Not in a way that involved getting shot at in the process. And that was what Bucky had always wanted for Steve, wasn’t it? So why was he so upset?
Bucky just sat for a moment, lost in the quiet of the empty barracks. Everyone else was out in the town enjoying themselves, knowing this might be the last chance they got - at least for a while, they told themselves - to loosen up and have a drink. Their absence left the whole camp unsettlingly empty, giving Bucky the first moment of actual quiet he’d experienced in months. For all the time he’d spent wishing for just a moment to himself, he hadn’t ever imagined just how afraid he’d feel to be really, truly alone.
Well, he wasn’t alone, not really. He could feel the lump of Steve’s last letter, shoved roughly in his pocket as though reminding him of its presence. Bucky found it no surprise that Steve somehow found a way to be his best and most insistent form of companionship, even when there was an entire ocean between them.
Fingers shaking, Bucky finally mustered the willpower to pull out the letter. It was a little bit crumpled, a little rough around the edges, but it was still so unmistakably Steve that Bucky felt his chest go tight just looking at the envelope. He really didn’t want to open it, didn’t want to see for himself whether Steve really was better off without him. In the end, though, he had no choice - maybe Steve didn’t need Bucky anymore, but Bucky needed Steve more than he’d ever thought possible.
Then he pulled out the letter and started to read, and it was forget to write, couldn't if I tried and I know you’re not alright and more than anyone else and anywhere, anywhere with you and by the time he got to the end Bucky could hardly see the page through his miserable, guilty, lovesick tears.
It was as though the tight pressure building in his chest, not just over the course of the evening but over the course of the years , ever since he’d looked at Steve and realized everything he wanted them to be, had suddenly released, letting out along with it all those built-up, unshed tears. With nobody in the barracks and hardly anyone in the camp, Bucky didn’t even bother to muffle them. He just let them fall.
He sat there for a long time, watching tears fall into his lap until he felt too wrung out and empty to even cry. When the raucous sounds of men returning to the camp started drifting in through the opening Bucky had left in the tent flap, he was still red-eyed and faintly trembling. He didn’t do anything, though, just sat and waited as Dugan, Morita, and Jones - his friends - made their way in and began rustling through their own belongings, preparing for the night. They all looked at Bucky carefully as they passed him, like he was one of the volatile bombs they’d been trained not to handle lest they trip some mechanism of the explosive by accident. Bucky hated it.
“I -” Bucky started, his voice rough and gravelly from crying. He cleared his throat before trying again, feeling the concern in the glances of his friends as he spoke. “I’m sorry I’ve been acting - well, I haven’t been acting like myself lately. It’s not fair to you guys and I’m just - I’m sorry.”
The words barely even got a reaction, for which Bucky was immensely grateful. If nobody pointed out the weakness he’d let show, he could at least keep pretending to be strong. And maybe the rest of the guys could do the same.
Instead of asking him what was wrong, Dugan simply cleared his throat and went to change the subject, speaking as consolingly as he could without disrupting Bucky’s fragile composure.
“You know what the first thing I’m gonna do when I get home is?” he said. “I’m gonna take a hot shower, stay in it as long as I can. Won’t get out ‘til all the hot water’s used up.” He trailed off dreamily.
“There’s this diner, where I’m from,” Morita joined in. “First thing I’ll do is go in there and get a coffee, and just sit, and look out the window. Finally won’t have anywhere to be for a while.”
“Think I’m gonna go dancing,” Jones said. “Find a girl or three, take them out, show ‘em a good time. Won’t have to worry about gear or inspections or anything else. We’ll just… dance.”
They were quiet for a moment, lost for the moment in contemplation of things they could only wish for.
“We’re gonna make it,” Morita said quietly. Bucky didn’t even have to ask to know that their minds were all on Fred Williams, on the other guys that hadn’t been so lucky. “It’s gonna get bad for a while, but we’re gonna make it. We’ve got to.”
Bucky nodded blankly, more for the benefit of his friends than for himself. Even if he did make it through the landing and whatever came next, he didn’t know what he’d do once he made it home. He didn’t even really know where “home” was anymore. Without Steve, New York was hardly as welcome a thought as it used to be. Nor was anywhere else. As the rest of the men resumed their preparations for the night, Bucky kept thinking about it, trying to dredge up a concrete place he wanted to return to, but couldn’t come up with even one. They all felt empty.
It wasn’t until later, when Bucky was rifling through his pack for a pencil and paper, that he stumbled once again across the little sketch Steve had sent to him, their old apartment laid out perfectly in charcoal. He’d somehow let it slip in unnoticed with the rest of his gear, but now he brought it out again with renewed reverence. Their familiar old furniture, their coats and shoes jumbled together at the door, all the components of their own small share of domesticity - that was home, as far as Bucky could conceive of it. Not the apartment, exactly, but him and Steve together, just the way they always had been.
If he wanted that home back, Bucky knew he was going to have to fight for it. And that meant he couldn’t just keep pretending. He ran his eyes over Steve’s letter in his hand, desperately trying to think of a way to bridge the growing gap between them.
Dear Steve, Bucky wrote that night, Steve’s drawing in full view on his cot next to him.
I’m sorry it took so long for me to write back to you. You might’ve been right about me not being totally alright (and yeah, that’s the only time you’re gonna hear me admit you were right, so, like you said, you’d better save this paper). Sometimes it just feels like everything’s falling apart, and I can’t help but wonder what’s going to be left after it does. I want to think we’ll make it through, but sometimes I’m not so sure.
Do you remember that guy Williams I told you about? How he was a good friend, made it easier to deal with everything when I first got shipped out? He didn’t make it. He had a girl, too, and they were gonna get married. It’s just not fair. When stuff like that keeps happening, it’s hard to think that anything is gonna turn out okay.
We’re about to head into something bad, really bad, and I’m not gonna lie, Stevie, I’m scared. I know it’s wrong, but I don’t want to do this. I’m not ready. I just have to think - to hope - that we’re gonna make it out the other side.
It’s always so good to hear from you. If you can find the time (I know, you said it’s no problem, but I still don’t want to keep you from your work) can we try to write more often? When it feels like nothing makes sense, which keeps happening more and more often, it always helps to read over your letters. Where are you going? What are you seeing? Are you taking care of yourself? I’d love to see one of your flyers, too. Sounds like they’re pretty different from your usual art, but, knowing you, you’ll be doing a great job on them all the same.
The simple act of writing seemed to lift a weight off Bucky’s shoulders, the last of the tension he had yet to cry out finally melting away. He’d have to put on a brave face when he met with the terrifying unknown, but he didn’t need to keep wearing that mask with Steve. Steve knew him better than anyone else - all Bucky had to do was be honest and let him.
I’d better sign off now - just know that even when I’m not writing, I’m always thinking about you. I’ve got no clue what’s coming, but I gotta believe I’m gonna make it through. Or, we are. We have to, right?
Yours, always,
Bucky