The Red Soldier: Origins of the Red Soldier

ISSUE #6

As (Y/N) (L/N) climbed down from the last step of the bus parked at the top of his street, a flood of regret washed over him. He missed his family dearly, but returning home seemed to pull old, lousy, memories to the forefront of his mind; memories he'd rather forget.

A week before he left for New York, the only building he'd seen affected by the air-raids was the end of house terrace belonging to his grandmother's friend, Mrs Jefferson. Now though, there were a number of buildings reduced to ash and rubble. There was no longer a tobacconist down the street, and the closest butcher was now in town.

He cast a longing glance at Mrs Jefferson's house, trying his hardest not to think about what her final moments must have been like. Trapped under heavy bricks, the sound of artillery exploding in the night sky.

Bucky hadn't noticed, he was too distracted by the trees lining the streets, the friendly faces that greeted them as they continued down the pavement towards the large Georgian house which belonged to Mrs McGowan.

Mary had moved in with her daughter, Violet, a week after war was declared and her husband had gone off to fight. A month later, when (Y/N)'s father had re-enlisted for his old position as a weapons engineer in the navy, and his brother had joined the army, (Y/N) and his mother moved in. There was plenty of room for them all, and Gladys appreciated the company.

'Which one?' asked Bucky, realising they'd almost reached the end of the street. (Y/N) stopped walking, looked around, and then noticed they'd passed it.

'Passed it by a few,' he laughed off nervously, backtracking up the street and then through the gates to the house. At least Grandma's tulips still had all their petals.

(Y/N) stuck his key in the door, turning it and allowing the heavy oak door to swing open. He let Bucky walk in first, and then he followed, dropping his suitcase on the Victorian tiled flooring.

Bucky was glancing up the steep staircases as though expecting somebody to walk down. 'I thought you had a small cousin?'

'She was evacuated about a week before I moved to Brooklyn,' grunted (Y/N), searching his pockets for the carton of cigarettes the stewardess on the train had given him.

'Evacuated?' Bucky questioned.

'Most children were sent to live in the countryside when it started,' said (Y/N), staring at the portrait of his great-grandmother which hung above the fireplace in the lounge. He couldn't see any detail from the entrance hall, but he recognised her face. He'd only met her once when he was very young, she was a kind woman who'd always send him and his brother a bar of dairy milk for Christmas.

He stood, his stare transfixed on the portrait, as his breathing begun to grow faster. Bucky crossed the hall, placing his hands on (Y/N)'s waist, his eyes focusing on (Y/N)'s which were narrowing. 'You alright?'

(Y/N) blinked forcefully as he nodded, swallowing his emotions. 'Fine,' he smiled falsely. 'Let me show you around.' Bucky nodded back and held his hand, their fingers intertwining. (Y/N) found some comfort in this and led Bucky into the lounge. 'That's my grandma's mam,' he pointed up at the grey-haired woman who hung in a bronze frame above the marble mantle, 'Juniper I think her name was.'

Bucky looked down at (Y/N), a smirk playing across his face. (Y/N) glanced up, meeting his blue eyes questioningly. 'Are you rich (Y/N)?' he asked, looking a little surprised.

'What?'

'Family portraits? Velvet curtains? Marble fireplace?' Bucky Barnes listed.