Work Text:
I don’t know who I’m writing this to. If this was ever relevant, I imagine I’d have it so deeply buried away that it’d be amazing if anyone found it at all. A part of me wishes I could say it out loud, if even just to figure out how the words taste coming out of my mouth. Curiosity, I guess… But everyone around me, they have enough going on in their own lives as it is. After everything I’ve done, the last grievance I should cause anyone would be to add yet another problem onto their shoulders.
I feel like I’ve become quite the pro at carrying a heavy load. They say that everyone’s put on this planet for something, and to be honest, most of the time I’ve never really known what mine is, my purpose… Maybe this is it. My ma, she used to tell me growing up that I had good shoulders. Around the time where I stopped being a boy, started to become a man, my shoulders felt like the first things to grow. Always broader than the rest of my body knew what to do with, until it learned how to catch up.
Funny… But when I look back on my life, it seemed like them shoulders of mine were always meant to be holding things up – be it a crate, a barrel, a rifle, or guilt. Ample room up there, I suppose. Maybe that’s what I’m good at… After all the things I’ve done, I guess I had that coming. The problem these days is that sometimes, my knees feel like they’re about to give out. I always find my footing and keep on stepping, but once they started shaking from the weight, not a day’s gone by that they haven’t stopped. It feels an awful lot sometimes like the weight I’m carrying is starting to get a bit too heavy.
I never thought of myself as someone with many redeemable qualities. Do you think it’s possible that there are people put on this planet who were never meant to be there? Sort of… slipped through the cracks? You could argue that god, he don’t make mistakes like those. But then again, I stopped being a believer a long, long time ago. If he does exist, he must not like me very much. I can’t say I’d blame him, if that were the case. I don’t much like myself either anymore.
The thing is, I can’t help but wonder if there are some of us – the damned few that we are – who never get much more than ‘just okay’… Most of the time, this don’t phase me that badly. I can deal with ‘just okay’ – with mediocre, withgetting by – because, I mean, that’s life right? From the day I came into this world, I never had it great but I definitely could’ve had it worse. I like to imagine it like this: when the universe came to be, however the fuck that was for sure, what was ‘Good’ was one big, shiny, beautiful ball. The most beautiful thing in existence; something so gorgeous that, like the sun, you couldn’t look directly into it because its magnificence would be blinding.
Then living creatures came around and that ball got shattered, and all the ‘Good’ got broken into a million little pieces, scattered across everything that is. If life’s about anything, I tell myself that it’s about finding those little slivers of the things that make us happy and holding onto them for the true, beautiful things they are. And anything can be Good, really… It can be a smile from a certain someone, or catching a snowflake on your tongue, or getting just a few minutes of sleep in the mornings. It can be seeing a full moon, or listening to music, or tasting something delicious for the first time.
We all get baskets. Thing is, some people just got bigger baskets, whereas others get ‘em smaller. There’s no rhyme or reason for this. Life would be a fairer, better place if we all got the same sized basket – the same chance as the next fella to be happy in the world. But life ain’t fair, that’s just the way it is. I try to tell myself that if you got yourself a smaller basket, sometimes it might feel like those shards of Good are even harder to find.
Truth is, they aren’t. They’re just as much there for you as the next guy. It’s just that… sometimes, when you realize you got yourself a smaller basket, you let yourself become blinded. The good things are still there, they just become a little harder to see.
I’m one of those sorry sacks of shit who was born with a smaller basket. Others have it smaller than me, and I try to remind myself of that. And in the past, I’ve tried my damned hardest to grip the shards I’ve found as tightly as I can; maybe appreciate them more than those who always got it easy would. Maybe sometimes, I’d actually be selfish – like, if I appreciated them more, I’d prove to whoever might be up there that I deserve more of a chance to be happy. Who doesn’t want to be happy?
Fuck, I’ve done a lot of things… Messed up, cruel, unforgivable things. Everyone around me tells me I’ve paid my dues, “You have to learn how to forgive yourself, Barnes.” If I could, doesn’t anyone think I would’ve by now? They seem to stay with me, though; sunk their claws into my skin and I can’t shake ‘em off no matter how hard I try. I do try, I do. Maybe sometimes it don’t look like it, but I give it my best shot. But they’re relentless. They even follow me into my dreams – and maybe I deserve that.
Sometimes, it’s easier to think I did something to bring it onto myself. Sure beats the alternative, where you did nothing at all. I’ve found it’s a little harder of a pill sometimes to swallows, when you feel like you truly don’t deserve the cards you get dealt. At least if it’s your own fault, there’s a reason behind it. I’ve seen what evil looks like – in the war, at Hydra’s hands, in poverty, you name it. And let me tell ya: random, unprecedented evil is the worst, because you can’t wrap your head around it. You can’t accept something you don’t understand, unless it’s something like faith. And, well, I think I already made it pretty clear that I gotthat in short supply nowadays.
They tell me I’m not a machine anymore, not a monster following orders. Gotta be truthful – I don’t really believe them all that much, considering that half the time, I feel like the only function I got is autopilot. Not like the Soldier… that’s different. But not really me, either. Not the “Bucky Barnes”, the guy everyone talks about me being once upon a time. I don’t think I have been “me” in decades. I don’t always know that I’ll ever be “me” again. All I can do is try, you know?
I really don’t know what the point of this is. I guess I just need to say out loud thattrying is sometimes just so fucking hard. There are days on end where trying is all I feel I’m doing, and it gets fucking exhausting. I don’t wanna be a burden onto everyone else, so I choose instead to say nothing on the subject at all. If I’m gonna suffer, it’s gonna be in silence. I was never all that good at letting other people fuss over me… It was always easier to walk with a straight spine, a confident step, and take on the load. Broad shoulders, remember?
With every day, I know what I’m doing a little less and less. I try different things to help, things that might give my mind a break and help me stop thinking. Nothing really seems to work anymore. The only time I feel any semblance of peace is if I have a gun in my hands, and that scares the shit out of me. Of all the things Imight’ve been put on this earth to do, the idea that I might actually be a monster – good at doing nothing betterthan killing – makes me wanna turn my gun and shove the barrel into my own mouth.
I actually find myself wanting to do that an awful lot more lately than just during those specific times. When the memories came back, they came back quick. They came back mercilessly. It was worse in the beginning, when I didn’t know how to cope with the things I felt inside… With the fucking chaos in my brain. But it hasn’t fully gone away, not really. I’ve flirted with the idea of death so many times that if it were a dame, I’d have taken it out dancing by now.
Thing is, I can throw on a charming smile with the best of them. They trained me for that shit in the good ole’ glory days of the Red Room. Plus, I was told that I used to be a charismatic and charming young man, back in the day. (From the sounds of it, I used to also be happy, apparently, but that’s a harder concept that wrap my head around.) Passing things off like they’re no big deal feels second-nature. If anything, maybe I wasn’t as happy as everyone assumes I was back then. I had to get this experience from somewhere. I’ve perfected my fake smile, my fake laugh. My imposters look exactly like me. You’d never know the difference.
Sometimes, I wonder what exactly it is that’s keeping me here. When I feel hopeless more often than not, when I feel exhausted and numb and can’t stop fucking dwelling on my demons… Sometimes it’s easy to forget why exactly I haven’t pulled the trigger yet. I mean, it’d be fucking easy. Here one second, gone the next. And it’s not like I’d have to worry about any messes I left behind. I could tie up all my loose ends, pay back all my debts, make sure everything’s in order, then just… Go. I’d never have to suffer through another day of this again.
Then I look over to him… And just like that, I’m reminded.
Steve. You know, the thing about Steve is that you feel loved just by being around him. He’s got one of them million-watt smiles that get you smiling, too. No, seriously. If you can be around him and not crack even a little one when he gives you one of those big, toothy grins, then tell me your secret, please, ‘cause I sure as hell don’t know it. What I do know is that when he smiles, I’m a goner. If my smiles are fake, they’re only real around him. Mind you, it’s not like he magically erases all the fucked up things I’m feeling inside, but being around him helps. He makes me feel like maybe, someday, I can be a whole person again.
Maybe that’s because he never stopped seeing me as a whole person. He seems to see a future for me that I could never fathom, even on my best days. If I was born with broad shoulders, if I was put onto this earth solely to be able to carry heavy burdens better than other people, then Steve was put into this same world to not only take them from people like me, but have the strength to know when to put them down… To show people like me that it’s okay to give yourself a break and say when you need help keeping yourself up.
Mind you, that’s a little fucking ironic, considering that Steve’s got the same goddamn problem when it comes to letting himself accept help from others. Swear to god, that guy will forever claim that any mountain in his life is nothing but a molehill, just so people don’t know when he’s hurting. The difference between him and me is that Steve’s got a heart made of gold, he really fucking does. Me? If not for the fact that it’s still clearly beating, most days I’d never be convinced that I even have one.
He’s one of those people who’s got a purpose. I’ve always known that, just by looking at him. Knew it from the day we met. Funny thing is, he got an evensmaller basket than I did in life. Yet even with his shitty vision growing up, he had the best eye for those shards of Good that I’ve ever seen; could spot them from a mile away. Wouldn’t be surprised if he even gave up his own share more often than not so someone else could get just one more smile outta there day… Someone else, maybe like me. These days, I don’t think Steve realizes that I don’t deserve the amount of himself he always seems willing to sacrifice for me.
But you know… Even just thinking of him right now, as I write this, starts to do the trick. I look at him, you know, and I think back to the old days – back when it was just the two of us… When things were still complicated but not as complicated… When he felt like the greatest, most perfect secret I’d ever stumbled upon and got to selfishly keep all to myself… Before his body matched his spirit and before everyone else suddenly wanted him, too. I think back to when he was a tiny fucker, and he needed me. He did need me, you see – no matter what he may tell you, you bet your ass he did. Don’t even wanna get started on all ways he’d probably not even be here today if not for me saving his hide, what with how fucking stupid that punk got whenever some asshole (he’ll call them ‘bullies’, which is real cute, Steve) rubbed him the wrong way.
He needed me. I liked that he needed me, and I always got real scared when I thought from time to time that I might lose him. Kid got sick far too often – almost inhumanly so. Maybe I’m mixing up my memories here, but I’m pretty sure I told him once that catching pneumonia was his superpower. He didn’t find that very funny, but I’m sure if I told him that now, he’d at least smile. And I’d smile, too. Know why? You guessed it: because when Steve smiles, I smile.
And that’s what keeps me here, really. It’s remembering back to those days when I never knew if I’d see that smile again, and not having a fucking clue how I’d cope without it… Knowing that I wouldn’t. Call me a pathetic sonofabitch, but if I’d have lost him, I wouldn’t be here now. I wouldn’ta even made it to the war; wouldn’t have lasted that long. If I didn’t have him these days, I would’ve long since pulled that trigger.
It’s knowing how that feels and never wanting him to go through that same thing. It’s loving that fucker so much that I could never do that to him, because if he’ddone that to me, I would’a socked him in the jaw so damn hard if I ever saw him again somewhere, someday. It’s knowing that I could never live without him, and knowing he feels the same way.
It’s loving someone else more than I love myself – but for now, maybe that’s okay. Maybe that’s all I need.
If my only purpose on this earth is to be there to make sure I look after Steve Rogers and keep him safe, in check – even if he tells me to high hell and back that he doesn’t need it… then I’m fine with that. It sure as hell beats my purpose being that I have shoulders broad enough to properly hold all the fucking burdens that weigh me down on a daily basis.
Maybe one day, I’ll find that there’s another purpose I have. Maybe I won’t. Sometimes, I wonder if it’s fucked up that after everything that’s happened, I’m only still here because someone else needs me… That I don’t live because Inecessarily want to, or because I care all that much about my own life, but because this other person needs me in order for them to carry on.
Steve’s always been meant for great things, I’ve told him that from the start. Heis… Much more than I’ll ever amount to. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was a part of that perfect ball of Good, and that’s why he never needed that big of a basket; why he had a natural eye when it came to finding those little shards. If that’s true – and it very well might be – then maybe he is the universe’s way of reminding me that things will eventually turn around. I mean, if somehow I’ve proven myself worthy of having him around my sorry mug… how hopeless can my life really be?
Plus, if he really believes that badly that he needs me around for him to be as great as he is, I’ll take it. I’ve never been above a little flattery.
As I sign off, I think I’ve finally realized who this letter was meant for all along… Who needed this reminder most. So… Bucky… Whenever you get to this point, I want you to stop and think very carefully about how you felt while writing this letter, in this very moment. Read me again, and again, and again, as many times as you feel you need to, whenever you question why it is you’re here and whether you’re deserving of being happy or not. But do me a favour… Every time you finish reading this, turn your head… Or leave the room… Or wherever you have to go. Let yourself find him. Look at his face. Watch him smile. Know that you will find that person inside of you that you’ve lost, and that he will help you the whole way.
Let yourself be reminded of this, and never forget it: it’s Steve. It’s always been Steve. He’s all the reason you need. And when he smiles, you smile.
And that’s more than enough.
Sincerely,
James Buchanan Barnes