Work Text:
Bingo Square Fill: Poetry - history snuffed us out(but poetry didn’t)
The hospital was filled to the brim with death. Bucky Barnes laid back on the hospital bed and groaned. His left arm was amputated. The room was cold but the air was so warm. His head was no longer pounding, so that was great.
In the past few weeks of living here in the hospital, there’s been a switch of people coming in and out in hospital beds - all attached to life support and bandaged up. The first was this guy named Ricky, with a bruised eye and a messed up leg from an explosion. The second was this woman named Daisy who had no legs and finally - there was Sam.
He hadn’t interacted with Sam. The man was mostly asleep, until today.
He grumbled and turned to Bucky and a smile appeared on his face.
“Are you Sargent Barnes?”
“Yup,” he nodded. The man’s eyes were so brown and soft. Sam had horrible burns on the back of his chest.
Sam blinked and shifted in his bed. He winced.
“Don’t move,” Bucky tells him “it’s gonna make it worse…”
“I’m Sam,” he managed and flashed him another smile. Bucky’s heart goddamn skipped a beat. He put down the book he was reading.
He called one of the nurses over to help Sam. The curtain was pulled and Bucky would only hear his voice.
“Where’s Riley?” he asked the doctor “did he make it?”
There was a pause and a hoarse voice responded: “Mr Wilson, I have some grave news...Mr Underhal didn’t make it.”
There was a tense silence. Bucky sat there, heartbroken - although he didn’t know who Riley was, he could hear Sam’s quiet sobs. The price of war. He heard Sam’s cries and he took a deep breath. Grief. What an emotion. Bucky has been sitting here and watched people practically drown in grief and heartbreak. It’s part of the reason why he wrote poetry.
For the following days, Sam was silent.
Bucky didn’t approach him until he flipped open to a new page in his worn-out notebook and tried to write a poem.
He turned to Sam, who was reading a book and going through the letters his family gave him. He noticed the way Sam’s tongue stuck out when he was concentrating, or how his pretty tooth-gap smile showed when something in his letters appealed to him.
Bucky wondered how Sam ended up here, how he would like to live out his day instead of being stuck in a hospital bed.
“Excuse me,” he leaned over slightly and that caught Sam’s attention. He threw him a warm smile, “Sam?”
He looked up from his pile of scrawny, tear-stained letters and turned to Bucky with an unreadable expression. “Yeah?”
“Uh, I just want to say – I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Oh,” Sam said slowly and stared at his hands and back to Bucky “thank you…”
There was a moment of silence. Sam turned to him and opened his mouth and hesitated. “Did you uh,” he cleared his throat “did you lose someone, Bucky?”
“Not someone close,” he replied and sighed “at least not yet.”
“I work in the Air Force,” Sam explained “Riley was my wingman…”
“I’m sorry.” Bucky said again and paused “uh, if you don’t mind me asking - who are your letters from?”
“My mum, my sister…” Sam peered over to see what he was doing “are you a writer?”
“Far from it,” Bucky laughed, “I just like writing poetry. That’s all.”
Sam paused for a moment. The man across from him had pretty blue eyes, a warm smile – he’s heard the stories of Sergeant Barnes. He couldn’t help but smile. Bucky’s voice was like honey.
For these past few days, they’ve just been hearing each other’s voices through a curtain.
“Would you like to write poetry for me?” Sam asked.
Bucky smiled “of course,” and that’s when it began.
The two wrote to each other often. More often than regular friends should. The two spent hours walking around the hospital, reciting poetry and letters to each other. It was a Saturday evening when they finally kissed.
Of course, not many would approve of their growing relationship.
Historians looked at the pictures they took side-by-side with each other and labelled it ‘friendship’. Their letters and poems to each other say otherwise. In his late stages in his wounded, traumatic life - Bucky Barnes made sure that Sam was loved. Fellow soldiers reported the two to have ‘camaraderie and bravery like no other...the soldier and Sergeant understand each other well in battle and off battle.’
Bucky and Sam would pull each other in the dark and kiss and hold hands like lovesick teenagers on drugs. Sam would laugh against James’ chest in satisfaction and loved every moment they spent together.
Bucky was scribbling out a page in the hospital room, where Sam was awaiting the arrival of his sister. Sam and him passed each other notes across the table as they were given food and walked around. Nurses and doctors didn’t take note of their romantic attitude towards each other.
“Sam,” Bucky said softly and he looked to the door “I think she’s here.”
Sam let go of his hand and he stood to greet his sister. They smiled and hugged and exchanged stories. Sam had a family and Bucky barely had anyone.
His sister was missing and Steve – well, he’s busy being a hero. It did kinda bum him out that Steve hasn’t visited him in the past few months.
At least he has Sam.
The two weren’t able to continue their legacy in the war, but they were able to contribute support and help to those in need. Many letters between them were stashed and hidden. When Sam was discharged from hospital, he wrote him a letter.
September 2nd 1946.
Dear Sam,
You compel me, Sam Wilson.
For your words are a poison, and your tongue is a dagger. But if I were to die by your hand, it would be an honourable one. Your behaviour confuses me, Sam. Not for the negative reasons.
You complete me.
You bewitched me. There hasn’t been a single day where I have not fantasized about you, Sam Wilson.
Your words and laughter stung into my mind as I pondered the question: If I dive, will you dive with me? If we were to sink hand-in-hand amongst a riveting sky of bullets and rainfall, would you join me?
Your lips and voice only sound right when it says my name.
You have no idea how much I yearn, Sam Wilson – for your character of such poise and grace - I thought my eyes had failed me when I first set upon your greeting. I admire you and your being. How admirable and fond you are amongst your touch, composition and word.
I shall not compare thee to a summer’s day; in fact I shall compare thee to the sun. The sun would be jealous, compared to your radiant smile. My name sounds so fond and true upon your lips, I wonder what it would be like to kiss them again.
For I do not know what the bounds of yearning is, for all I know that my pining for you extends out like the ocean waves of Delacroix. You speak so fondly of the place, remind me, my dearest - when was the last time you’ve felt at home?
After all these months of having each other’s backs, side-by-side. Do you wonder the same as I? You’re a bullet to my heart but I will it so. You’re a sparkle in the morning light as it adorned your figure ever so righteously. If there was anything missing in my entire life; it is you Sam.
You compel me, in which I do not understand. You make me think, in ways I do not want to touch upon. You make me feel alive, Sam. You make me feel like there’s something left in this broken world which I despise so much.
You’re the only thing I’d ever thought of Sam. Ever.
Yours,
James Barnes
Sam was at home when he received the letter and his heart swelled. He instantly wrote up a reply. The two had to keep their relationship secret. Sam loved cooking food and he loved it more and more each day when he’s alive and well.
There are still scars on his back from the battle.
He grabbed the nearest piece of paper and wrote a reply.
September 12th 1946
Dear James,
You compel me, too, James. You complete me. Your eyes and words are like a formidable ocean upon what your being is. You are an admirable man, I must admit.
You compel me as I look into your eyes and wonder - what blue could be as wonderful as those? What blue could make me drown unlike thee? And no, I shall not compare thee to a summer's day; for I shall compare thee to the stars up above. You compel me, in each way possible. In each way, I see the stars and think of what my name would sound upon your lips. you compel me, but in the most infatuated way possible.
To my heart’s content, you are in my peripheral view. You are a part of my life I want to acknowledge. For your affections are not futile, but they mean a greater deal to me than you shall know.
Please, when you have the time - send me another poem? I feel like my brain is being fried without your words to satisfy me.
Love,
Sam Wilson
Bucky sat in his hospital bed and it was two weeks until he got that letter from Sam. He burst into a large smile upon reading it. He began writing his poetry right away. He read over it, again and again until he thought his heart was going to explode.
When I’m out of hospital I’m coming straight to D.C. Bucky thought and shifted in his bed. The doctors told him he was doing well. Every now and then a nurse comes in and adjusts his sling around his arm.
It was a Tuesday when Steve finally visited. He was a little disheveled to see that Bucky was missing an arm. He straightened out his uniform and blinked at his friend.
“Bucky,” he tried to smile but - he wasn’t looking at him “it’s been a while,”
“Yeah, punk,” Bucky laughed and stared at him, “well, you’ve gotten taller.”
Steve nodded and stepped closer “you okay?”
“Yeah,” he replied and drummed his hand over the bedsheets “you wanna say something Rogers?”
“How’d you –” he swallowed guiltily “how’d you lose the arm?”
“Amputated,” he explained with a shrug “but uh – what have you been up to? Steal any cars?”
Steve chuckled and that lightened the mood. “No,” he replied “I took Peggy out for a dance…”
“If you’re weirded out by the lack of my arm, Steve - I assure you I am still the same Bucky you know.”
“I know.”
“Then stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“That I’m different.” he huffed “I’m not different. With or without the arm, I’m still your Bucky.”
Steve tensed. “I know,” he replied “I - I missed you…” he paused “what, what have you been up to?”
“Poetry,” he gestured to his stack of notebooks, “are you still doing that art thing?”
“Yeah,” he smiled, “you wanna read some of your work to me?”
Bucky nodded and reached over and flipped open his notebook with one hand and stopped. Would Steve be alright knowing that he wrote love poems to a man? He frowned at his words and stammered. “Nah,” he said hurriedly and put it away, “I don’t think you’d like it – it’s, it’s cheesy.”
Steve folded his arms “well can you at least - read something to me?”
He sighed and gave in. He read out loud one of the older poems he sent to Sam through the mail.
“You’d think that your heart would beat, but there is no blood. I wonder what atrocities you went through and what is there of? You’d think I’d be home to you by now, by the beach and summer air - but alas, not now. We’d be dancing the night away, as your smile takes on display. You are in my heart, like a sworn secret I must not tell. I hope to see you again, hope you are well.”
Steve paused and smiled “that sounded - great. Who’s it for?” he teased.
He blushed. “No one.” but Steve could tell that in his eyes - this wasn’t ‘no one’, it was ‘someone’ and that ‘someone’ was everything.
***
Sam got a stack of letters from Bucky by the time November arrived. He opened them one by one and had the joy of replying and reading.
November 2nd, 1946
Dearest Sam,
Hopefully when you get my letter I am discharged from the hospital. There is not a day where I don’t miss your smile. In your last letter you mentioned you started gardening, tell me, are the flowers grown? Are they as beautiful as you?
My friend Steven Rogers came over for the past few days. It is a boring life without you here. I would be going back to Brooklyn but I want you to know - that you will always be with me. I miss holding your hand, Samuel.
I miss you so much, it almost ate me alive.
I know I can’t see your face but I hope you’re smiling right now. You have a smile that could knock me out of the park. You notice me, Sam. More than anyone. You make me feel seen.
One day I shall repay your kindness and love. One day I shall swoon you up with flowers and kiss you silly once I see you again. One day I shall hear your laughter and my mind will be calm again.
There is not a passing day, where I do not think of you. You are all I think about. I want to hold you again. I want to hold you like there’s no tomorrow.
Sam was smiling. He wrote a reply.
November 4th, 1946
Dear James,
Have I ever told you how much I love saying your name? Have I ever told you that saying your name sounds so right against my lips? You are an interesting man and you have captivated me with your words. Receiving your letters is the only thing I live for.
There is a no larger strain in my heart than not seeing you again. However, I am haunted by my nightmares. I don’t know what to do, Bucky.
Am I the reflection in my mirror or the figure in my nightmares? I am lost and when I awake from one of those horrid dreams, I think of you - and I am calm. My sister Sarah wonders what I’m smiling about upon reading your letters.
Will history call us friends, dearest? Because you are more than a friend to me, James Bucky Barnes. You are a missing piece of me.
You understand me. You understand. It’s been a while since anyone has understood my own faults and troubles of loss and war, only you understand. You get me. You know what it’s like to feel so empty and lost.
I think I found a home in your arms. One day, we shall meet again and maybe our friends might laugh about how silly this all is. Being with you isn’t silly, it’s goddamn right.
Remember that night in the hospital? How we walked down the long hallways in the dead of night and kissed like there wasn’t a care in the world? I fear, though, that the war and its strife has taken a toll on my family.
I wish to see you again.
Love,
Sam
P.S - I’m naming a bird after you.
Bucky was glad to open Sam’s letters with a wide smile on his face. The two exchanged letter after letter until their wrists and eyes were sore. It was evening and there was ink smudged on his hand and piece of paper.
He kept on writing to Sam.
He wants people to know who they were. Who they loved. He’s almost so sick of hiding his love for Sam. He just wants to hold him, openly in public and kiss like the men and women down the street can.
He’ll wait.
Sam hadn’t heard from Bucky in two months. He keeps on writing, despite his growing doubt.
Bucky hasn’t replied because he was still adjusting to his apartment in Brooklyn where Steve keeps on being a mother hen. He finally opens up the plethora of letters that Sam gave to him on a Sunday evening and he smiled.
January 13th 1947
Dear James,
Ever since Riley’s passing, you helped me get through his death. I don’t remember thank you. So, thank you. Are you visiting anytime soon? I would love to see you in person again. I miss the way the edges of your eyes crinkle when you smile and the way your eyes twinkle under the sun.
I’m getting nightmares, too.
I hate them but - but it's a relief waking up because then I know it's not real.
It’s a relief to know that you’re still with me, within these words. It’s a relief to hold you through these pages.
My sister wants to know who this mysterious ‘Love Letter’ person is. I wish I could tell her, but - we need to keep it hidden. We both know that and it's a pain to no end. How’s your sister? Have you seen or written to her?
What is your future looking like? Update me, love.
Love,
Sam
Bucky fiddled with his piece of paper and stared at it for a very long time. How was he going to reply? He sighed and began writing.
Dear Sam,
I am sorry I have not replied in such a long time. I know I have a lot of reading to do. Your handwriting is incredibly pretty, do you know that?
I’m sorry about your nightmares. I wish I was there to help you with it.
Maybe one day I shall visit you. The truth is, with a man with no arm - I don’t know what the future holds for me. If I still had my arm, I could probably work in a store nearby. I know that you will be in my future, Sam. I want you to be with me, for eternity.
I go to bed at night and think of your eyes. Eyes so beautiful, so brown and pretty. How can someone be this pretty?
I’ve taken a small hiatus on poetry, I’m afraid. I shall try to write something, just for you.
Aren’t you the finest bird I’ve seen?
Wings spread out so far,
In the morning gleam
Aren’t you the soulmate I’ve waited for?
Lips parted so gracefully
As we hide in evergreens.
It was three months and the letters became inconsistent. Historians tried to gather the remaining puzzle pieces of the two and their relationship. The letters were scattered and discarded. There were some unfinished drafts of poetry from James Barnes that were found just before his passing seventy years later. The two comrades were around the age of thirty when these letters were written.
James Bucky Barnes died in a car crash, in his late forties in the 1960s, whilst Sam Wilson grew up all the way to his late seventies. There is very little evidence that they spent time together in Louisiana, however, there are letters found in both of their homes that contained the same information. They did spend time together in person but the location was unknown.
The two ‘friends’ continued to write poetry and intense letters of love to each other through their life.
2nd August 1948
Dear Sam,
I am so glad that I was able to spend time with you in person once more. I am so grateful for your smile and laughter. Your hug and warmth is nothing like I would have imagined - it is more. It is everything.
You’re like the sun, and I think I’ve said that already. You’re like an angel that’s come into my life. Sam, Sam, Sam. Your name. It sounds so right.
Sam.
I love you Sam. Isn’t that satisfying to say? That picnic we had was comforting. Your laughter is bright and your word is true. You’re incredible, Sam.
I want to see you again.
Love,
Bucky
A lot of their letters were half-written or incomplete. This could have indicated hesitation in communication. For many years, historians have written them as friends. Anyone would say otherwise. Maybe they were two souls destined to die, or two flames that were destined to fall apart in the end. Either way, they were destined to be something.
Sam,
You’re the reason why romantic poetry is my second language.
– Bucky