A/N: Don't worry, I'm not done making you all cry yet...
The day they return to London, Steve is formally given all of Bucky's things, including a letter that arrived from Brooklyn -ironically- on the day that Buck died.
He takes it all with shaking hands and quietly excuses himself. Can barely breathe by the time he reaches his room and settles down, trembling, on the edge of his bed.
He fumbles the letter open, feeling strangely intrusive -though he and Bucky always shared everything between them- and reads.
Dear James,
Is everything alright? You haven't written in a few weeks, and you know how I worry when I don't hear from you. Please send us something soon, Bucky, honey.
Your sisters send their love, of course. Becca wanted me to tell you that she saw you and Steve on a poster the other day. She's so proud of her big brother, it's just the sweetest thing.
Rachel is starting dance lessons next week. She said she'll save you a seat at the recital. I told her you might not be home in time, but you know how Rae is. Nothing and nobody is going to convince that girl when her mind's made up. She misses you, baby.
Cathy made you a doll. I know you'll love it. It's a little strange looking, but she's only four and she did her best. I had to mail it separate, but it should be right behind this letter. She wants you to write and let us know when you get it, so don't you dare forget!
And since you asked, I'm doing alright, I don't want you fussing about me anymore. It's just a little infection, nothing I can't handle. You always were my little worrier, Bucky. You'll make yourself sick if you just fret all the time, honey. We're doing just fine. You look after your own self, young man!
Also, before I forget to ask, how is Steve doing? I know you can't say much, but I do like to know how my boys are. Tell him we're thinking about him too.
Write back soon, James. We miss you and we love you. Take care, baby.
Love,
Ma
It's several minutes before Steve can stop crying long enough to put the letter down. He's huffing long slow breaths, in and out, making himself inhale and exhale. Very deliberately, he folds the paper neatly over itself again and presses it carefully back into the envelope. Hands shaking, he sets it down on top of Bucky's things, left gingerly on his stool by the door, and stands there… just staring at the whole pile.
He can't, he realizes abruptly. He can't be here, alone with… with these dead things. He's got to get out of here. The room is squeezing in on him and it's going to crush him into nothingness soon. He's got to… Got to go…. go somewhere. He doesn't know where.
His feet are carrying him down the hall and out the barracks door before he even realizes he's moved, and he lets them go right on carrying him until he's standing in the bombed out ruins of a very familiar bar. His breath hitches.
Why the hell not? It's so goddamned appropriate…
He pulls up a stool to the last intact table, rummages out a miraculously undestroyed bottle of bourbon, and sits himself down with a couple of glasses.
He promised Bucky they'd celebrate. That he'd let Bucky get him roaring drunk for a night. He pours out two shots of expensive booze and raises one in a toast. He can keep at least part of that promise, he tells himself as he drinks.
The liquor burns like a fire all the way down, but it tastes like ash in his mouth.