Work Text:
Swiss Alps, 1945
“Do you still believe in heaven?”
Steve looked over at his best friend, barely visible in the light of the full moon. Bucky was clutching his rifle to his chest, staring out into the dark. He should have been sleeping, but Bucky didn’t sleep much anymore.
“What are you talking about, Buck?” Steve asked quietly.
Bucky sniffed, his nose streaming in the cold. “You know,” he said, still not looking at Steve, “all that angels and paradise bull that the nuns used to feed to us in Sunday School. Do you still believe in heaven? That something that good and pure could exist after all the hell we’ve seen?”
Steve sighed and looked up at the sky. The stars twinkled in the black velvet of the night, thousands of them. His mother used to tell him that they were the souls of his family and friends who had died and gone to heaven because they were good people. He wondered if he was still a good person; he had killed more men than he could have ever imagined, and he wondered if that’s what sparked Bucky’s question in the first place. He knew that his best friend was hoping he would have any excuse to kill Zola tomorrow on the train if he could. Glancing at Bucky again, he shrugged.
“I’d like to think there is,” Bucky said after a while. “I’d like to think that there is something good after everything we’ve done. Even if I don’t go straight to heaven, I’d like to think that there is going to be a little glimmer of hope in the dark.”
Steve nodded. “Yeah, I hope you’re right.”