These Paper Hearts

August 6th, 1943

Bucky,

I’m sorry about Williams. He sounded like a good guy, and he didn’t deserve that. No one does. I could go into the whole spiel about God and Heaven and having a plan, but, you’ve never found as much to hold to in that as I have, so just, I’m sorry.

I can’t tell you it’ll turn out okay, either, much as I wish I could. But Bucky, I’ve gotta believe you’re gonna make it out of this. Thinking about this going any other way...it just ain’t right. I can’t even wrap my head around it, not that I’ve tried too hard to. I know things are changing, falling apart, but you don’t have to wonder what’ll be left, okay? I’ll be here. Maybe not exactly where you left me, but I’ll be right beside you when we walk back into the old apartment (I kept it you know—you know I wouldn’t get rid of it), hang up our coats, and line our shoes up by the door. 

I know it’s not a lot, but you’ve got that left, and so help me James Buchanan Barnes you had better come take it. You told me till the end of the line, and I’m holding you to it. We can talk about the rest when we get there.

Now, I’m only changing the topic because I know you need it, so don’t get too used to me letting you get away with so much, jerk. The job is great—I’m getting paid to do something I actually like that doesn’t make me feel about to keel over. I’ve gotten to see a couple different cities so far; Buffalo, Milwaukee, Philadelphia, Chicago. I admit I haven’t seen many sights, not a ton of free time with the tour this popular, but the travelling, Buck! I look out the window and see rolling hills, wildflowers, and then all of a sudden there’s these wide, flat stretches of road that just go on for forever. It ain’t the Grand Canyon, but it’s gorgeous, and it’s more than I ever thought I’d see—for more reason than one.

The people are nice, these government, military types are actually more intimidating now that I’m beholden to them for something, but they seem to really like what I do. It is different from my usual art, that’s for sure, but I just did what they asked and now I’m actually getting to like it. It helps that everyone else seems to like it, too. I did draw up a flyer my own way, though. You’ll have to tell me how you like it, whether it’s better than the ones I’m sure you’ve seen around by now. 

I’m taking good care of myself, promise. I drink my black coffee in a hotel room in the morning, take a warm shower, sometimes sit at the desk and read your letters or write one back. I go to work, think up some new material, attend the shows, and hang your coat up when I get back at night. Haven’t been sick since right after you left, been getting plenty to eat, even put on weight since this job started. It’s good for me Buck, I swear. Been getting to meet a lot of people, too, though I gotta say I think I prefer a lotta them from a distance. Wish you coulda seen—some lady who liked my art asked me to hold her kid and sign a flyer after one of the Captain America shows. I hardly knew how to hold the thing, nearly begged her to take it back. Don’t wanna do that again any time soon.

You asked for longer letters, so don’t you go getting tired of reading on me now. I gave you details, now I need some. Silly as it sounds, after years of always knowing what you might be doing and where, it’s rough just thinking of you out there doing Lord knows what with God knows who. I don’t mean the heavy stuff, but you can tell me that, too. Just, tell me whether you got enough sugar for your coffee in the morning, and who you talk to when you have the time, and whether the food manages to be worse than anything we ever made together, and if you stare up at a tan canvas tent when you can’t sleep at night or something else. 

And Buck? I keep all your letters. Every single one. 

More later, I swear,

Steve

August 23, 1943

Dear Steve,

It’s real good to hear from you. I can’t say much about what we’re doing, but I can say we’re gearing up for something big. Still managed to get your letter, though, and with any luck mine will be able to make it out to you. 

I’m sorry for dumping all that heavy stuff on you in my last letter. It really did help to just talk to someone about it who’s not here stuck in it with me. Only getting to talk to you through letters makes it easy to only show you the good parts, pretend that everything is fine, but I think it really helps to talk about the things that aren’t so great too. Gives us all the time we need to find the right words to talk about the bigger things, right? Maybe I’m crazy. Haven’t been able to sleep as much, just knowing what we’re about to do - might be making me more sappy than usual. 

Speaking of the bigger things - your job must be going really well, if they’re taking you to all those places! Wish I could see them with you. Do you remember us always talking about doing that? Heading out west on the open road like cowboys on one of those radio shows we grew up listening to? Now you’re actually doing it— is it everything we always thought it was gonna be? I wanna hear all about it, wanna feel like I’m getting to do it too.

(Also really wish I could’ve seen you interacting with people’s kids. Steven Grant Rogers, holding a human baby - that’s a once-in-a-lifetime experience if I’ve ever heard of one.)

You’ll be happy (maybe) to know I also got your Captain America flyer. It’s real good, better than all the posters I’ve seen so far. Even with the mask he’s got on, the way you draw the guy’s eyes, like he really believes in something - I can see why the campaign has gotten so popular. I gotta say, though, this “Captain America” is supposed to be a soldier, right? Don’t know that any of us out here have looked that patriotic (or even that awake) in a while. The colors on that outfit aren’t exactly easy on the eyes, either. Just saying! But if Captain America is keeping you healthy and getting you enough to eat I guess I can’t complain. 

I might be tired, but I’m never too tired to read anything you send me, just so you know. I keep that drawing you sent me, the one of our apartment, on me all the time. Thanks for letting me know you kept the place - even more reason to make it home. I can only wish the food here was as good as whatever we managed to scrape together back there, and, oh god, don’t even talk to me about sugared coffee! Miss that almost as much as I miss you, punk. 

And hey, now I’ve got Captain America to keep me company too, though I think I’m gonna stick to looking at the apartment drawing when I’m feeling down, no offense. And that’s only ‘til I see it again in person. Or, I guess, until we see it, together. 

I’ve got to get this letter sent while I have the chance, so I’ll stop rambling. Still hope I hear some more from you real soon - I can’t help but keep worrying that things might go wrong and I might not get the chance. I miss you, you know. 

‘Til the end of the line,

Bucky

September 12th, 1943

Buck, 

You’re always a big sap, sleep or not. But I don’t mind. I don’t mind hearing about the heavy stuff, either—I’m gonna worry about you either way so you may as well keep me from thinking the worst. And you’re right, I think, about finding the words for the bigger things. It’s hard when you don’t even know what they are, when you don’t even have the words to say it to yourself, to go and tell someone else. 

Here I am on a whole other continent and we’re still hitting some of the same marks—I swear I ain’t slept in a week! The job is going great, but it’s been kicking up some since things are getting tougher. They like me so much they want me to go for another tour with them, out west this time, funny enough. So far it hasn’t been quite what we always thought it would be, but it’s good, Buck. There’s interesting people, good food, long nights in random hotels, and longer days just staring at a quiet stretch of sky in the distance. That part’s my favorite, I think, because it’s real lonely, but it’s supposed to be. Quiet, nothing to worry about, no burning need to do something, anything. Always been hard for me to find that.

The hotels I think are my least favorite, actually, because that’s when I remember that it ain’t quite right, that there’s no brown-eyed jerk sitting on the couch and laughing when I knock my head on the doorframe for the fifteenth time stumble in all bleary-eyed after a show.

So, yeah, it’s great—holding the baby aside (which, two more the other day, baby girls with little bows that tried to grease my hair with slobber)—but not exactly like we thought, because you ain’t here. I wish you could be, I think you’d love the drives, Buck. It’s real quiet, real serene I think is the word. We gotta go travel in the spring, though, because you’ve gotta see the wildflowers. They just grow everywhere, sometimes they’re all you can see, just all wild and colorful and free. The fall is nice too, right now all the treetops are on fire, but I think you’d like the flowers. Wish I’d’ve thought to press you some, but that’d be tough to explain to the guys I have to go around with, huh?

Speaking of those guys, Cap is a good one. I know the posters and stuff are kinda showy, but he does really believe in something. He may not look like a soldier, but the types in charge say that’s more for the public’s benefit than anything, getting support and all that. I think he’s a good guy, anyway. Always wanting to be doing more to help. I’d leave him be. And if my word isn’t enough, I’ll do you one better—I’ve got so many sketches Buck, of you, of us, and you’d better believe that another word about my art or the people in it means you won’t ever see them all! And there’s some real gems in here, too. Remember that night that you were out on the fire escape, just watching the sky change by yourself because you’d been watching me and my fever like a hawk for days before it finally broke? 

Of course you remember. You also remember how you let the door close and locked yourself out for the whole night, because I was still sleeping like the dead on the other side of our place. I woke up and I remember I was so surprised that my personal ghost wasn’t sleeping in the chair in the corner, and when I managed to get across the apartment and saw you slumped asleep against the glass, I just couldn’t help myself. I had to sketch it out real quick, my hands were a little shaky but you looked real sweet. Hair all ruffled, cheek pressed into the glass, just huddled up on that tiny little landing. Good thing it was summer, or you’d have had more than a crick in your neck!

Point is, I’ve got stuff you ain’t even seen Barnes. I’ve got all the sweet, precious ammunition I need to show everybody that you’re not as smooth as they think, and I will use it. I’ve got some of the two of us, too, and I’d like to think you wanna see those when you get home.

I miss you Bucky. That at least I do have the words for. The rest, well, I’ll work on it. Keep you posted. What I can tell you now is that I get it, what you said about not getting the chance to hear from you again. Don’t you dare do that to me Barnes. I mean it.

Mostly though, I just miss you. 

Love,

Steve

September 28th, 1943

Dear Stevie,

I can’t believe it. Steven Grant Rogers, are you trying to blackmail me? Knew you were never one to play by the rules, but this is a lot, even for you. I’ll have you know I am smooth, thank you very much. Was hardly my fault your ass kept me up for a week - if anything, the fire escape incident was totally on you. 

You got me, though. I’m sorry! I know as well as you do that I have no room to criticize your art, and I want to see all of it, the fire escape incident included. I can’t help but ask, though - did you really draw me all that much? I remember you carrying around that old sketchbook all the time, the one you saved up all year to pay for. You would draw everything you could see, it seemed like - our school, our families, a weird leaf you found on the ground, it didn’t matter. Not that you were too keen on showing it to me, or anyone else, really. Did you draw me too, back then? (If so, I bet you’ve got a lot of dirt on me, just saying.)

I keep thinking about that one day in high school art class, when they told us to draw portraits and you drew us. Do you remember that? I think you got in trouble for that, drawing two people and not just one, but I was so impressed with it. The way you made the lines all connect so that it didn’t really feel like two people, just two halves of the same portrait. Like something would’ve been missing if you took one of them away. Is that one still around? That’s one I’d really like to see again (provided I pass the test and keep my mouth shut about Captain America, of course. I’m working on it.)

I’m also busy working on making sure I make it back, making sure I still get to do all those things we talked about. You said I couldn’t leave you alone, and I’m gonna do my best not to. We all just went through something big, and I’m pretty shaken up, but I’m still here. I can’t say much about it, but even that rusty old fire escape is sounding pretty comfortable right now, if that tells you anything. 

Speaking of which, I hope you’re trying to get enough sleep. These army guys better not be working you too hard - I know you said you’ve been feeling better, but you know how bad things can get when you’re not taking care of yourself. I don’t want a repeat of that one fall when you insisted on finding some work so I wouldn’t have to put in as many hours at the docks. You worked way too hard and ended up with pneumonia, which took you out of commission for over a month and scared me half to death.  Don’t want you going through that again, especially now that I’m not there to worry too much and make sure you make it through. 

The workload aside, that travelling sounds amazing, Steve. I’m sure the flowers are beautiful, but I’d almost rather see the leaves all changing colors. I feel like I’ve heard so much about what real fall is like, with crisp air and piles of leaves and all that, but you know I’ve never really seen one. Back home the leaves just get darker before they fall, and here they’re all turning the same shade of brown. Funny that I’ve traveled more than I ever thought I’d get to, but I still feel like I’ve hardly seen anything. Wish I could be there with you, giving my (very informed) comments on your art and keeping you company when you got time off. And before you call me a sap again, that’s not just because of you, you punk. (I mean, it’s mostly because of you, but also just about anything would beat being out here digging trenches in the mud).

Much as I want to keep writing, I guess I’d better wrap this up and try to take my own advice to get some sleep. Promise me you’ll do the same? I bet those hotel beds are softer than those godawful bricks we had at home, so you’d better be taking advantage of it.

Anyway. Really hope to hear more from you soon. 

Love,

Bucky

October 15th, 1943

Bucky,

Believe it, jerk. And hey, it wasn’t like I had all that much choice in the matter either—just because my body wanted to try kicking the bucket didn’t mean I did. Seeing you all sweet and balled up like that was the highlight of that week! 

Don’t worry too much about the whole Captain America thing. I guess I’m a little sensitive about it. I haven’t done much that people would call good, or useful, you know, and I got kinda miffed when you brought it up. It ain’t what I thought I’d be doing, it ain’t what I’m used to, but I like it and I’m good at it, and the only thing that’d make it better would be you tracking along to all these places with me. But, no matter what you say Buck, I wouldn’t actually keep you from seeing any pictures.

First of all, there’s way too many to keep them to myself forever. I still have that old sketchbook, and I gotta say, you’re about half of it. Ever since it got to be just the two of us, it’s been mostly you. You’re good to draw. I’ve got young Bucky, covered in dirt from dragging his best friend through the bushes looking for Goldfinches, and I’ve got you on your first day at the docks, lifting boxes twice your size, and I’ve got you locked out on our fire escape and I’ve got you in your uniform helping me hobble outta some back alley. So yeah, I draw you a lot Buck, but I got a lot of the two of us, too. 

Second, ‘course you can see that one again. I kept it—still one of my favorite things I’ve ever drawn. It really does look like we’re two halves, and that’s how it felt when I drew it. That’s how it’s always felt, isn’t it? For me, anyways. I can’t remember a thing that was ever better without you there. Actually, I don’t hardly care to remember a thing without you there. You don’t gotta tell me if you’ve felt that, too...maybe it’s a stupid thing to say, anyways. Just, I’ve been realizing the more I talk to the guys on the tour, the more I start to make something like friends, that nothing really comes close to you. Some part of me just knows it never could, either. I dunno, it just seems like we’ve been closer than most friends ever get, though I guess I ain’t had all that many friends to compare, and that’s fine by me. 

So I’ve got that picture, ‘course I’ve got it, and you’re gonna see it. I’ve only got one copy, but I’ll make one first thing once I send out this letter (don’t want you having to wait too long for me to get the lines just right again). Or, you know, maybe you could see it in person. The tour’s been talking about going to Europe...it ain’t set in stone yet, but it’s out there. Turns out I might be going to you, maybe. 

Speaking of going places, and of sketches, there’s a sketch with this letter, too. If you haven’t seen it yet, let me explain before you go ruffling around for it, and if you have seen it, please keep reading anyways. 

I’m sorry, Buck. See, I’m in Arizona, Flagstaff. The tour ran out this way, and I know we had always wanted to go together, been talking about it since we were kids, but I just couldn’t quite help myself. You mentioned wanting to see the fall, see the trees all actually change, and one of the guys mentioned that even though the trees around here don’t change much, the earth and the rocks look just like fall—all shades of orange and yellow and red. So I went to the Grand Canyon. Maybe I shoulda saved it for when you got back, but I dunno, I wanted to give you something else to look at now that things are getting rougher, something else to hang on to. I wanted to make sure you got to see it, in color and everything (hope it hasn’t smudged too bad, either). I’m sorry, Buck. Damn it all to hell, the tour and the war and the Canyon, I just wish you were here. 

Again though, it’s looking like I might be making a stop over there, somewhere. Then I can apologize in person, for everything, for the Canyon and for some other things you gotta know that I just don’t want to tell you like this. Maybe then I can give you that portrait, maybe even give you some sugar for your coffee. I’m getting more sleep, promise. I know it’s getting tougher, but write me when you can. I always wanna hear from you Buck. I need to.

Love you,

Stevie

November 10th, 1943

Steve -

Tight spot - can’t talk much. Thanks for the sketch. Hope Canyon was good to see. Really wish I could've been there. Good that you didn’t wait for me - not sure that’s gonna work out.  

Getting sent further out. Can’t talk details - probably can’t write much, at least for a bit.

Please be careful with all this touring. Know you love getting into trouble no matter what I have to say about it, but if you can get out of it, best to not take that trip to Europe. Don’t wanna see you over here, understand?

Sorry - have to get this out ASAP. Want to say I miss you, and just in case - don’t do anything stupid, okay?

-B