Chapter Text
“желание,” the man starts, and somewhere deep inside him the Soldier hears the desperate plea of someone he used to be. Longing…
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The moon. Full. Large and bright, too bright. It sticks out like a sore thumb amongst all the green uniforms and brown mud and pink flesh and the red blood. Bucky stares at it, annoyed at its ignorance, at how it dares remind him of a life that won’t be his no more. He’d thought he was ready and the idea makes him laugh, a hollow chuckle empty of all emotion except I don’t want to be here. But then again, he’d been just a boy, no matter how grown he’d believed himself to be, and the war had turned him into a man.
Basic had been easy, and thrilling, and exciting. And then it had been a little tougher, and then some more, and then it wasn’t fun at all. And then… Then he’d had to say goodbye to his family, and goodbye to Steve, and he’d gotten on the train and off to war. At first, he’d been alone, really alone, but soon enough, as time went by, he’d made some friends. Well, Bucky scoffs to himself, as close to friends as you can become in war-time, knowing at least half if not all of those you know will soon bleed and die, and then you’re back to square one. Back home he was known to be friendly and charming, quick to make acquaintances, and a part of him tried to hold onto that out here, to fight back against the little voice inside his head reminding him of the awful truth. Still, he kept a part of himself hidden, safe from the menacing voices and the gunfire, from the bitter cold and the blood that flowed like a river every night. They liked him out here now, as much as any soldier dared to like another.
If he lets his eyes wander he can see some of his brothers-in-arms, swaddling a jacket or other and choosing to sleep right there in the mud. The rest try to keep spirits up by sharing a word or two over a warm cup of whatever beverage they can get their hands on. And then there’s him, alone, tucked away in the night, clutching a letter and trying to keep warm.
Bucky’s millions of miles away from home, exposed to the cold Italian night, and he hasn’t seen it in months. He’s starting forget what it felt like, to be home, to not freeze, to not be scared, to not be alone. He fumbles the letter in his hand mindlessly, the skin that’s still soft on his fingertips grazing the textured parchment. Bucky sighs, desperate. He traces his fingers along the indention where Steve's pressed his pen too hard.
Buck, Nothing much happening here. Just waiting. Food's running low. Take care of yourself. Can't pay for this apartment by myself. Steve.
He tries to picture his face, somewhere far away from here. Twisted in frustration, bent over his artwork, skinny legs tucked under his frail body as he sits hidden on their fire escape. He’d do anything to have him here, but Steve doesn’t belong in a place like this. The thought of it makes him shiver right down to his goddamn bones.
God’s will, momma would say. He’s punishing you, momma would think. She’d never say it, though. She’s always tried her damndest to shut her eyes.
Not far from him, a man coughs, the cold autumn air swirling where the warmth from inside him exposes itself. He clutches his leg in pain. It’s not broken enough, or in the right place, to save him from fighting tomorrow.
Bucky holds the letter close, holds Steve close, holds himself. The part of him that’s still intact. He shuffles in his seat, trying to get as comfortable as he can amongst the walking dead. He tries to sleep.