Winter's First Snow

Frozen Gunmetal

         The bombs were the worst part of the whole war. The ground shook under your feet and it took a while for the smoke to clear. Bucky sat waiting for instructions from his captain. But none came. He looked around and was very confused to see that none of his team were anywhere to be found. Bucky made the wrong choice of getting up and walking around. Because of course, as always, the enemy was one step
ahead of him and just like that, at a snap of fingers bucky was gone. Knocked out cold.
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         It didn't take long for Bucky to realize that he was simply the messenger for the rest of the American army stationed around that area, his shoulder was bleeding, it was cold and someone was screaming. Bucky shut his eyes and went to grab his gun from his belt but there was no gun. And his arm didnt move. Maybe it was broken or- Bucky looked over to where his left arm should have been but there, it no longer was. Well, at least, it wasn't his arm. It wasnt someone elses however either. It was metal. Like mechanical. nice and shiny silver with a big red star painted on the upper part of it. The screaming started again. But this time
bucky knew it was coming from him. His arm was gone. And replaced with one crafted by god knows what. Bucky was too far gone to realize that he'd been found by another troup. They all stared in disbelief. "He's alive" "so it's true" The whispering went on for a while until the captain extended his hand to help Bucky up. Without a second thought Bucky took his hand and hauled himself off the ground and thanked the man who seemed to have a dubfounded look on his face. Had Bucky done something outstanding or- his arm. He'd used his left arm. Without a thought about it. As though the metal arm was exactly as his real arm was. "How long have i been gone?" Everyone around him seemed astonished that he could speak. "A-about two weeks sir..." One of the
younger men responded. Bucky nodded. "I take leave in a few days. I assume there will be some sort of questioning yes? Because I don't remember shit."
   "Whats your name soldier?" Bucky stood up straight, planted his feet in the ground and recited: "Sergeant James Buchannan Barnes of the 107th Sir." The captain nodded and spoke under his breath. "Just as i expected."
Bucky cocked his head to the side for a moment and waited for the captain to elaborate. "Sergeant, you've been missing for two weeks and the rest of your battalion were taken as prisoners. there were rumors that you were dead somewhere as well as rumors that you were a spy for the germans. But we can see that you are merely the poor messenger of bad news. And no one likes to deliver bad news. The same way no one liked delivering the news to your flatmate back home that you were MIA. I guess he didnt take it so well."
   Bucky was fuming. They practically told steve that he was dead. "Well, im not fucking dead. And my only bad news is that for some damn reason by best lad thinks I'm dead and I have no fucking left arm." the captain nodded agreeably but spoke in a hushed tone. "No son, Your bad news is that the germans seem have a much higher technological ability than we do. And we may have little chance at winning this war." Bucky shook his head. "Excuse me captian but fuck this damned war. Im going home in three days whether its on a gurny or in a car i don't care how I'm getting there. But im going home to make sure that steve isn't sick and fucking dying... Now where's your camp?"
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Steve couldn't wait. He'd cleaned the house, messed up the bed to make it look like he'd actually been sleeping there. Put the coat rack back in the foyer because he knew damn well that the first thing that Bucky was going to do was take his coat off and hang it somewhere. And Steve rather preferred if Bucky wouldn't hang it over the arm of the couch where he'd later forget about it and then not be able to find it because it's fallen onto the floor and sat there under the coffee table or the side table... Steve sighed at the memory of Bucky. He can just imagine Buck running around the house, late for work and he cant find his coat. "Ive looked everywhere Stevie and- oh im already late ill just walk fast." And steve would smirk, walk over to the side of the couch and pick up Bucky's coat. Without a word he would help Bucky into the coat kiss his cheek and usher him out the door and on his way to work.
         Steve smiled to himself. 'Soon' he thought. Very, very soon. Bucky would be home, in their bed with his arms wrapped protectively around steve. He would be bringing Steve cups of tea and leaning down to give him forehead kisses and blow raspberries into his cheeks. 'He'd be here to lose his damn coat off the side of the couch. And-'
Steves thoughts were interrupted by a loud consistent knocking on his door. They seemed to really want in. Steve, slightly worried at the persistence of the banging grabbed the thing closest to him which happened to be the small
letter opened which simply looked like a dull knife. Steve walked over to the door and slowly undid the locks. A young man, about Steve's age stood there with one hand behind his back and another holding a letter out in steves direction. Slightly relieved that it wasnt an axe murderer steve took
the letter and opened it with the pen knife he had in his hand.
          His entire demeanor changed drastically when he read the first line of the letter. It was like his  nightmares playing out before him. The young man said nothing simply extended his other hand which held a neatly folded American flag. Steve nodded and shut the door. He was in shock. Not distraught quite yet. However he knew he would be soon because some kid just told him that his best lad was dead. Fucking dead... Steve took deep breaths and threw the letter onto the kitchen counter while his body moved on
auto pilot and sat at the dining table. he rubbed his face with his palm. Trying to keep calm because this was huge. The letter said it was delivered to him because Bucky had no other living relatives and that Steve should file for
the insurance of Bucky's death. Steve didn't want that, he didnt want to be paid because his best friend died or because his lover died. That's just not something that Steve Rogers was willing to do...
   Steves hands were shaking and it was getting hard to breath and his eyes were burning. When the tears started falling he let his body go slack against the table and he held the back of his head, pulled on his hair and let the sobs rack through his tiny body. He cried until no more tears came and even then, he still cried. He sucked in gasping breaths and his whole body shook agaist the table that he was practically laying on. He heaved himself up and made his way into the kitchen, his feet dragging slowly behind him. he opened the cabinet and took out the box of black tea and the jar of honey. His hands fumbled and the tea fell to the floor and he stood there, blank, simply looking at the tea bags that were spilled all over the floor.
Steve felt dead, empty, blank.
          His existence felt unreal. This whole day felt like it hadn't really happened. Like he hadn't got a letter that said what it had and he hadn't sat at the dining table crying for three hours. Buck, his buck. He couldn't really be dead could he? It wasnt true was it? Not really?