Farewell
Bucky thought he remembered every time Steve had struggled through a bout of pneumonia. There was the first time, back when they were kids, when Steve had been gone from school for a month and Bucky had hardly been able to stand it, eventually marching up to the Rogers’ apartment and demanding to see his best friend. He’d spent that month reading comic books by the side of Steve’s bed, making sure to hold them up so that Steve could see the pictures inside. There were the times when they were teenagers, when Steve’s mother was almost as frail as her son and Bucky took over the duties of finding Steve medicine and propping him up in bed when he couldn’t breathe. Nobody asked him to do it - he just did it. It had just felt right. Then there were the most recent years, with Steve’s health in perpetual decline. Bucky had spent days on end sitting awake in the ratty chair in the corner of Steve’s room, just watching the slight up-and-down motions of Steve’s chest as his breath rattled in his lungs. He’d never been one for praying, but on those nights he came pretty damn close.
Bucky had thought he had a pretty intimate understanding of it, of what it meant to suffer like that, from all those years he’d spent watching Steve fight through it. Now he was beginning to realize that, for all that time, he’d really had no idea.
Bucky stood doubled over on the factory floor, his chest burning as he hacked up something thick and bitter. It felt like there were bricks piled up on his chest, shrinking his lungs and forcing him to fight for every tiny amount of air he managed to draw in. The cough he’d picked up on the front had clearly decided to stick around, and the long days of backbreaking labor and malnutrition he’d endured since his capture were only making it worse. Unable to help it, he reached out a hand to steady himself against the stationary edge of the conveyor belt in front of him in order to stop his knees from giving out.
“Hey! You!” As soon as Bucky’s hand came into contact with the machinery, a shout rang out in heavily accented English. Still preoccupied with the task of trying not to pass out, Bucky ignored it. “You there!”
Despite his swimming vision, Bucky suddenly became aware that there was a shadow looming over him. He dragged his eyes away from the ground to take in the sight of a uniformed guard glaring down at him.
“Did anyone tell you to stop working?” the man asked. Bucky gritted his teeth, remembering his training. Don’t show weakness, don’t give them anything, only say your name, rank, and number if you absolutely have to. Bucky swallowed a mouthful of something that tasted like blood and elected to say nothing.
Wrong decision. Apparently deeming that Bucky’s silence had gone on for a beat too long, the guard balled one of his gloved hands into a fist and aimed a swift blow at Bucky’s jaw. By the time he felt the pain explode across his face, Bucky was already on the ground.
“You do not stop working until we say to stop working,” the guard said. “Now get up. If you can. If not… we are going to have to take you to the infirmary.”
At the mention of the infirmary, Bucky’s blood ran cold. He was hardly the first one here to collapse on the job, physically unable to continue assembling whatever vehicles or munitions they were assigned to complete that day. The guards seemed to enjoy making examples of those men, publicly dragging them out of the factory in the direction of the “infirmary.” Everyone who remained knew just how much of a misnomer that was. An infirmary is somewhere you go to get better. Getting sent to this infirmary meant something else; if you went in, you weren’t ever coming out.
Sufficiently intimidated by the threat, Bucky pushed himself up to his knees, but found that he couldn’t quite get his legs under him in order to stand. With so much energy going into simply not keeling over, he physically didn’t have any left to get up. A slow smile was blooming over the guard’s face, as though he was just waiting for Bucky to fall again, but the smile dimmed when another hand wrapped itself around Bucky’s arm. Bucky felt himself being pulled to his feet, and he stumbled to lean against the conveyor belt in an effort to stay that way.
“See? He’s fine,” Bucky heard someone say beside him.
The guard’s attention snapped to the owner of that voice, Bucky all but forgotten. Bucky looked over to see the soldier that had been working next to him staring defiantly up at the guard.
“Do not tell me how to do my job again,” the guard said softly, somehow managing to sound more threatening than he had when he was shouting. “Or there will be consequences.” As he spoke, he reached for his waistband, where a small pistol sat waiting in a holster. Lightning-fast, he drew the gun, flipping it backwards and bringing the grip end down on the soldier next to Bucky, who crumpled dazedly to his knees.
“Back to work!” the guard bellowed, lingering for a moment on the soldier struggling back to his feet before turning back to continue his rounds.
“Thanks,” Bucky whispered hoarsely once he was sure the guard was out of earshot.
“Yeah,” the soldier said, ghosting his fingers over the lump forming above his eye before returning his focus machinery in front of them. “Better not make me do it again. What’s your name?”
“Uh, Barnes. Bucky Barnes.”
“I’m Falsworth. And that’s Dernier,” the soldier said, gesturing to the man working on Bucky’s other side, who gave a subtle nod of acknowledgement. “One of our men got taken back there a while ago. We aren’t sure what they did to him, but we haven’t seen him since. We’re just hoping to make sure the same doesn’t happen to anyone else.”
“That’s -” Bucky tried to reply, but the effort sent him coughing again. It burned fiercely. This time it was blood for sure. He dropped the wrench he’d been shakily holding and tried to surreptitiously wipe his mouth with his palm.
“Don't talk if you’re going to do that,” Falsworth hissed, eyeing the dark red droplets staining Bucky’s hand. “You need to keep a low profile if you want them to leave you alone. Got it?”
Bucky nodded and regretted it when the world kept moving even after he stopped.
“Good. Just keep working, okay?”
Bucky tried. He tightened bolts on pieces of machinery as they moved down the line, marked off inventory on a clipboard with a dull pencil. The whole time his chest ached and stars fuzzed at the edges of his vision, occasionally forcing him to drop what he was doing and grip the edge of the conveyor belt just to stay upright.
When the bell finally rang to signal a change in shifts, Bucky felt so ill that he barely even registered the sound. Dernier had to nudge him to get him coherent and stumbling away from his station, back toward the cramped cells in which they were held. The modicum of relief he felt at making it through another day was short-lived when he considered what would happen next. Tomorrow would be no different than today in terms of work, and Bucky knew that whatever had taken hold of his lungs was only getting worse. It was only a matter of time before his body gave in, exhausted and unable to function. Somewhere in the haze of his thoughts, Bucky caught himself hoping that, whenever that moment came, he’d be dead before anyone had the chance to get their hands on him.
Bucky spent most of the night in the cell shivering. At least, he thought it was night - in reality, he had no idea, hadn’t seen the sun in who knew how long, just measured the passage of time by shifts in the factory and time in the cell. He couldn't decide if he was hot or cold; sweat was soaking through his shirt even as chills ran up and down his spine. Eventually he couldn’t stand it anymore, the constant cycle of tugging down the collar of his shirt to get some air and immediately pulling it up again when he got too cold, and he shoved his shaking hands into the pockets of his pants in an effort to keep them still.
Bucky realized with a jolt that his pockets weren’t empty like he’d expected them to be. Without even looking, he recognized the shape he felt as the pencil he used for inventory - dazed as he was, he must have shoved it in there and forgotten about it. He knew there’d be hell to pay if anyone discovered that it was missing from the factory floor, but Bucky was so tired that he had a hard time caring. He glanced around to make sure that the other men in the cell were asleep before pulling it out and turning it over in his hands, contemplating.
He entertained a brief fantasy of using the pencil to aid in some wild escape plan, sharpening it to a point and wielding it in the face of every guard that had beaten him as he fought his way to freedom, but even his fevered near-delirium couldn't convince him that that was a good idea. Instead he just stared at it, marveling at the simple fact that, in this place where nobody was permitted to have anything, he’d managed to take something for himself.
Upon hearing the footsteps of the night guard making his rounds, Bucky went to shove the pencil back into his pocket, but stopped short. There was something else in there, almost indistinguishable from the lining of the pocket. He held his breath as the footsteps passed, then rushed to pull out the other object.
As soon as he saw it, Bucky’s already labored breath caught in his throat. It was Steve’s stupid drawing, still wadded up in the pocket of the same muddy uniform pants he’d been wearing at Azzano. Some small part of him had always known it was there, but with sickness stealing more and more of his presence of mind every day, thoughts of the drawing had slipped away from him, a lifeline he hadn’t quite managed to grasp. The paper was flaky and water-damaged, so delicate it looked ready to fall apart, but Bucky still carefully unfolded it to see the drawing within. It had been through so much wear and tear that it was pretty much ruined, but he could still make out the faint impression of two pairs of newspaper-filled shoes, side by side in the corner of the page. If he’d had the energy to, Bucky thought he might have cried.
Sorry, Steve , Bucky thought, remembering the look on Steve’s face when he’d seen the telegram informing them that Bucky had been drafted. Part envy, part betrayal, and part something else - something that, if he hadn’t known better, Bucky would have gone so far as to call fear. One look at Steve that day and Bucky had vowed never to do anything to make him feel that way again. But he’d failed. Bucky squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the mental image of Steve receiving the inevitable next telegram. The Secretary of War expresses his regret that Sergeant James Barnes has been reported missing in action…
Bucky couldn’t quite wrap his mind around the idea that that would be the end of it - all those years of friendship and love, if only one-sided, and letters traveling all the way across the sea, fizzling out with one measly telegram from the US government. It wasn’t right. There was so much more that Bucky still had to say to Steve, all those things he’d been sorting through since they were barely more than kids but that he’d never quite found the words to express.
Another burning ache radiated through Bucky’s chest, bringing with it another coughing fit. Something bloody dropped from his mouth to the paper in his hand, a garish match for what remained of the red scarf sitting on the charcoal couch. It was now or never, Bucky realized, heart hammering as he looked down at the stain. Maybe he’d never be able to tell Steve everything he’d always wanted to, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t say it now. He hadn’t yet lost the power to quantify those things, to make them real. Steadying the stolen pencil in his trembling grip, Bucky flipped over to the blank side of the drawing. He took a deep breath, willing his shaking hands and foggy mind to work together one last time. Then, in tiny, cramped print, he wrote a letter.
Dear Steve,
Wow, where to start, huh? Gotta say, I never thought it was gonna end like this. You’d think all those war games we used to play when we were kids would’ve tipped me off, but no such luck. (Though those usually did involve me dying gloriously in your arms, not alone on the floor of some factory in the middle of fucking I-don’t even-know-where, so you gotta cut me some slack for not realizing this would be it.)
As long as this is it, though, I figured I ought to say some stuff to you. It’s kinda been on my mind for a while - I just couldn’t ever figure out how to say it, or I guess if I wanted to say it at all. Not like I’ve got anything to lose anymore, though. Don’t even gotta worry about how you’re gonna react. So here goes.
I love you.
God, Stevie, I love you, but it’s so much more than that, even. I’ve loved you since we were kids. I’ve loved you since before I even knew what loving was, really. There was never even a question in my mind. I met you and some part of me just knew, even then, that it was always gonna be you, only you.
And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry that I feel this way, when we’re friends and we’ve built this life around each other and we should be able to share everything with each other. I’m sorry I’ve been holding on to this for so long, when I should’ve just manned up and told you years ago and learned to deal with the consequences. I was never as brave as you were, though. And I was never as brave as you thought I was, either. I couldn't do it.
I just never wanted to ruin it, you know? I felt like I loved you too much to have you out of my life, even if that meant I could only ever love you from the edges of that life. I think I was wrong about that, though. I mean, it’s true - I hardly know what I’d do without you, seeing as you’ve been dragging me around since we were six years old, you punk. I just think a life spent pretending I’m gonna look at one of the gals in the dance hall one day and feel what I feel when I look at you wouldn’t have ended up being much of a life at all.
But I guess I shouldn’t have spent so much time worrying about that. It’s bad now, Stevie, it’s really bad, and I’ve got a feeling I’m not gonna make it home. You’ve got no idea how much I miss you, how much I wish I could be at our apartment right now, sitting with you on that god-awful lumpy couch and listening to the radio and watching you draw and just… being. We always used to talk about travelling out west and doing all those great things, but now that I’m thinking about it, all those normal evenings we spent at home just talking about that stuff had to be a hundred times better than actually doing it ever would’ve been. That was everything to me, Steve - just you and me, together against the world.
Wish I could keep going, but my head’s killing me, and I think I’m gonna run out of paper anyway. (That one’s on you - couldn’t have sent me a bigger drawing, huh?) You already know what I’m gonna say, but I’ll say it anyway - please, please take care of yourself. I love you, you know? Always will.
Bucky
By the time he finished writing, Bucky could barely hold his head up. Illness compounded with the release of so many years’ worth of pent-up emotion had left more drained than he could ever remember feeling. He had just enough lucidity to fold up the makeshift letter and reach down to shove it into the space between his boot and his grimy sock before he felt his eyes closing, sending him into a deep and dreamless sleep.
As soon as he managed to claw himself into something resembling consciousness, Bucky knew something was wrong. He couldn’t focus his eyes - everything around him was a blur of colors and shapes and sounds that refused to make sense.
“Barnes. Hey, Barnes, wake up.” Bucky squinted, and the shapes hovering above him came slowly into focus. He was able to make out the faces of Falsworth and Dernier, staring worriedly down at him.
Bucky opened his mouth to reply, but even if he’d been able to talk he wasn’t sure what he would have said. He settled for groaning and closing his eyes.
“No, no, you have to get up. It’s time to go to work.”
Bucky could hardly string thoughts together, but somewhere in the recesses of his mind he recognized the urgency of Falsworth’s tone. He went to push himself up onto his elbows, but found he couldn’t even do that. He fell back, setting his head throbbing anew when it came into contact with the concrete floor.
“Is there a problem here?” A knife-sharp voice cut through Bucky’s headache, accompanied by another blurry shape hovering at the edge of his visual field.
“No, sir,” someone spoke up for Bucky, who couldn’t quite get enough air in his lungs to make words.
“I suggest you move along, then,” the new voice said coldly. “It would be a shame if something were to happen that landed all three of you in the infirmary, no?”
There was a sigh, and then the sound of footsteps, growing softer as they moved away. In their absence, Bucky suddenly felt very cold. He tried to curl in on himself, but was stopped when a boot came into contact with his stomach. It was hardly more than a nudge, but it sent Bucky spiralling into a coughing fit all the same. He spat weakly, trying to rid his mouth of the fluid he was continually hacking up.
“What are you waiting for?” the voice asked. It was a guard, Bucky realized dimly, it had to be. “Are you not going to join your friends?”
Bucky made another shaky attempt to get up, but he knew he wasn’t strong enough to make it. He’d never been strong enough for any of this, he thought.
“No?” the guard said, tone dripping with mock disappointment. “Pity.”
Bucky felt hands digging into his burning skin, felt the world flip sickeningly upside down - or right side up? - as the guard pulled him to his feet.
“Come with me.” Still unable to find his footing, Bucky dropped to his knees, forcing the guard to drag him out of the cell. Half-conscious, he only dimly comprehended the route they were taking: a long, narrow hallway that got darker the further they travelled, as though the very walls were closing in on them. The most coherent thing Bucky was able to register was dread. Something far bigger than him was swallowing him whole, consuming him, and some part of him knew that Bucky Barnes wasn’t going to make it out intact.