History, n. an account mostly false, of events mostly unimportant, which are brought about by rulers, mostly knaves, and soldiers, mostly fools.

AMBROSE BIERCE, The Devil's Dictionary

I hope you're not still trying to enlist, you stupid punk Bucky writes after two months in Europe.

There's no such thing as Glory, Steve, and you'd think a lot less of dying for your country once you'd seen a few men do it. You think you got no right to do less than die like the men over here? I saw a kid get his arm blown off when a bad bullet blew in his gun two days ago. He bled out for his country's faulty ammo. I saw another guy lay down his life going out to take a piss. He got turned into confetti by a kraut land mine.

Stay home, Steve. I gotta know there's something for me to come home for.

Bucky feels a hand slap his shoulder. Instinctively, he curls around the letter on his lap, hiding the words on the page under his arm.

"Writing love letters, James?" Dugan asks, adjusting his bowler.

Bucky laughs, even though he feels a little forced. "Nah. Wrote all my love letters this morning.

"Uh huh, and who do you write love letters too?"

"Coupla girls," Bucky tells him. "The girl I went with the night before I shipped out," he leers at Dugan. "Her friend. Another dame, the one who serves tables at the diner near my apartment." He digs his hand into his pack and pulls out the small wad of letters he's gotten from those girls and waves it at Dugan. "They all send perfumed letters back, and the waitress can get a little racy."

Dugan laughs loudly. Bucky likes that about him. He's always in a good mood. Quick to joke, and always ready to make a good trade for another man's cigarette ration. The army has made Bucky damn glad that Steve never let him start smoking.

"And who you writing now?" Dugan asked.

Bucky hesitates for a moment, taps his pen against his arm. "Little brother," he finally answers. "Wants to enlist, but he's too sick."

Dugan nods. "Sorry to hear that. He got anyone at home watching out for him?"

"Not since I left," Bucky answers. "I send him most of my pay though."

"Bet he hates that."

Bucky looks up at Dugan in surprise. That's not what most people would say. Most people would start telling Bucky about how lucky Steve is to have someone like him looking after him. Some people would say they were sorry he has to take care of someone like that. They wouldn't say it to either Steve or Bucky's face, but Bucky had heard plenty of people talking about Steve behind his back too. About how his asthma was shameful and maybe someone who spent that much of the winter at death's door wasn't meant to see spring anyway.

The question is at the tip of Bucky's tongue. He's fought at Dugan's side enough times by now, he should be able to ask the man if he has someone… frail at home.

He doesn't ask.

"Bet he does," Bucky says instead. "But he knows how pissed I'll be if he doesn't take it."

Dugan laughs loudly again, and manages to get an answering smile of of Bucky. "Alright. Well. If you'll excuse me, I've got to go catch up on my own love letters."

Bucky nods and turns back to his letter. He stares at it for a few moments, then crumples it and pulls out a new sheet of paper.

Dear Stevie he starts The Army grub isn't so bad. Definitely better than my mama's cooking, and we both know she'd agree."