Dear Tomorrow
I still know that you might leave
I'll keep holding on tightly
To the words that you said
Of all the things I've let go of
And the way that I've grown up
You're the one thing I'm sure of
That I could never forget

- "Yours Truly" by Paradise Fears

"You're doing it wrong."

Sam looked up in surprise from his page. They were sitting on the floor at the coffee table, sharing a Mother Goose coloring book. Jake had been determinedly coloring in the hill that Jack and Jill went tumbling down, pressing his green crayon hard against the paper as if to make sure that there wouldn't be even the tiniest white spot left once he was done. But now he sat with his crayon clutched in his fist, staring at Sam's handiwork with a scandalized expression.

Sam smiled with satisfaction down at the picture of Little Miss Muffet he was working on. It had begun when he'd grabbed the wrong crayon and accidentally given Miss Muffet purple hair. Instead of trying to cover up his mistake with a darker color, he'd just continued with the flamboyant color scheme. Her "curds and whey" were bright orange, and the spider was hot pink. He'd used the brown crayon for Miss Muffet's skin (this coloring book could use some diversity anyway, right?), yellow for her dress, and green for the tuffet she sat on. But if he used the same dark green for the grass around her, that wouldn't look very good, and Jake had been using the lighter shade of green, so Sam had started to fill in the grass with light blue instead.

Apparently, this offended Jake's sensibilities. He pointed at Sam's picture with a fierce (and unbearably cute) scowl. "Grass is green."

Sam shrugged and went back to his coloring. "I'm using artistic license. There's no rule that says you have to use any specific color, you know."

Jake's hand darted out and grabbed Sam's wrist, stopping him. "Uncle Sam," he said adamantly, "grass is green."

It was so hard to keep from grinning, but Sam restrained his glee when he saw how serious Jake's expression was. Jake had never been so insistent before. Maybe he was finally getting through to him. "You're absolutely right, kiddo. But this is my picture, and I wanted to..."

Steve's footsteps crossing the room grabbed his attention, and he trailed off mid-sentence. He looked up as Steve dropped onto the couch, every inch of him sagging with disappointment.

"What did Matt have to say?" Sam asked.

Steve was still staring at the phone in his hands, as if hoping it would ring again. "Bucky got into another fight," he said quietly. "He's in solitary for two weeks."

"Again?"

Steve nodded, the worried furrow in his brow deepening. "He just got out, but now he's back in again. And Sam...this time he had to go to the infirmary."

Sam's insides twisted with worry as their eyes met. "Was it bad?"

"Matt said it didn't seem too serious," Steve said, rubbing his forehead wearily. "I guess someone got their hands on some kind of weapon. Got him in the left side. He'll be okay, but..." He let out a frustrated huff and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and staring blankly at the coffee table. "Two more weeks of no phone calls. No visits. Two more weeks of just...sitting here, wondering—"

"You're doing it wrong!"

Out of nowhere, Jake grabbed the page with Sam's psychedelic Little Miss Muffet picture and ripped it out of the coloring book. Sam stared as Jake crumpled the paper into a ball and threw it with all his might across the room. The paper ball bounced off the TV and dropped onto the rug.

"Jake!" Steve said, looking stunned. "What did you do that for?"

Jake tensed, eyeing both of them warily. After a moment, he pointed his finger accusingly at Sam. "He wasn't doing it right."

"Jake, that wasn't a very nice thing to do," Steve said in a gentle but stern voice. "You need to apologize to Uncle Sam for messing up his picture."

To Sam's astonishment, Jake didn't immediately cower back from Steve's mild disapproval and drop his gaze to the floor in submission. Instead, his jaw set in a very familiar way, and there was a soft crack in the silence as his fist clenched too hard around the crayon in his hand. His gaze locked with Steve's.

"No."

The silence that fell was so complete that Sam found himself holding his breath as he looked from one of them to the other. Finally, Steve broke it by saying, still keeping his voice even and calm, "Then I want you to go to your room and sit on your bed until I say you can come out."

Jake didn't budge.

"Now, Jacob." An edge of warning entered Steve's voice.

Without another word, Jake got to his feet and ran off. A moment later, they heard his door slam shut.

Sam let the silence ring for a moment before he said mildly, "Well, I think you've got the Dad Voice down, at least."

Steve heaved a sigh and sat back, running a hand through his hair. "Did I...was that what I should've done? He just...he never does that, so he took me completely by surprise..."

Sam clambered up from the floor to sit on the couch instead. "You did fine, trust me. He needs to learn how to play with others, right?"

With a half-hearted chuckle, Steve said, "Yeah...guess I got a little too used to him being terrified of me."

"So this is a good thing," Sam said. "A step in the right direction."

Steve looked at him in silence for a long moment before mumbling, "Do you have to find a silver lining for everything?"

Sam crossed his arms. "Only when you're being Mr. Doom-and-Gloom."

Steve closed his eyes and sighed again. "So what's the silver lining in Bucky's situation?"

Sam had to think about that for a moment. "Well...he won't get into any more fights in solitary. It's not as bad as it could be."

"How d'you figure that?" Steve mumbled glumly.

"He might not be able to call you, and you might not be able to visit...but nobody said you can't send him letters, right?"

For a moment, Steve just sat there. Then his eyes popped open and he sat up straight. "Why didn't I think of that before?"

Sam smirked. "Because you two only share one brain cell between you, obviously."

His words elicited an even better result than he'd been hoping for: Steve smiled.

Dear Bucky,

I should have realized sooner that I could write letters to you, even though I can't visit or talk on the phone right now. I guess I've started relying too much on technology after all. Sorry about that.

Are you doing okay? And don't just say you are; I can tell when you're lying. I heard that they had to take you to the infirmary. It feels wrong not to be there to help you. To protect you.

If there was any way I could take your place

But I know you're strong enough to make it through. This will just help us work on our patience, right? If there was ever any danger of taking each other for granted, I don't think we ever will once you come back home.

That's what I like to think about when I'm trying to fall asleep each night. You, coming home again. Not having to worry about rules or regulations. Being able to hug you for as long as you want.

I know what you're probably thinking. "We'll be here all night," right? That's fine with me.

I'm counting down the days until I can hear your voice again.

I love you.

Steve

Dear Bucky,

I know you probably haven't even gotten my last letter yet, but I wanted to write you again anyway. I have too much time on my hands these days.

We're all moved in now. All the boxes are unpacked, and I think we've got everything where it needs to be. I tried to unpack your things and arrange them the way they were at the Avengers HQ, but you'll probably have to rearrange some stuff when you come home.

I think Jake is having a bit of trouble adjusting to the move, though. It makes sense, everything is new to him. I'm sure it's stressful to have such a big change in routine. He's actually started talking back to me, saying no, instead of just "yes sir" all the time. Sam says he's testing his boundaries.

Maybe he misses his grandpa. I'm sure it would be easier for him if you were here. It would feel a bit closer to what he got used to, even though we're in a different place now. But I guess we'll just have to make up for lost time.

Miss you more each day.

Love,

Steve

Dear Bucky,

I don't get a lot of dreams these days, but I had one last night. It wasn't much, just a dream of us sitting on the couch—I think it was our old apartment back before the war, but Jake was there too. You were talking about something, or maybe you were reading a book. Jake was actually sitting in your lap, calm and relaxed. I could see you out of the corner of my eye, but somehow I knew that if I turned to look at you, the dream would end, so I just sat there and listened.

That's what I want, more than anything. I just want us all to be together. Even if we had nothing, even if we were dirt poor, I would be happy as long as we could be together.

My dream will come true someday. I believe that.

You know, sitting here and writing this letter to you...it reminds me of those years when I thought you were dead. Remember how I told you that I used to write you a letter on the anniversary of the day you fell from the train, and then burn it? Writing these letters kind of feels like that, because I can't hear your response right away.

But it's better than those days. It's so much better. Back then, I knew it was pointless to keep writing to you, because you would never respond. Writing those letters was so painful.

It's different now. I know you're reading these words, and I know you'll be able to reply. I know you're sitting in your cell somewhere, alive. To me, that's a million times better, and I hope it is for you too.

You are getting these letters, right? Sorry, I don't mean to be impatient. I just miss you. Can't wait until we can talk on the phone again.

Love you to the end of the line,

Steve

P.S. All quiet on the Western front?

Bucky's second stint in solitary confinement was both easier and harder than it had been the first time. Easier, because he knew what to expect. Harder, because he knew what to dread.

At least the wound in his left side didn't take long to heal. For another man, it might have been cause for concern, but all Bucky needed was a trip to the infirmary to get a new bandage and a tetanus shot, and he knew he'd be fine. When he was taken back to the infirmary the next day to get it looked at, the nurse stared hard at the spot on his side, stared hard at her paperwork, and then muttered about people wasting her time.

Bucky tried asking her if there was something she could do for his back, which had been aching worse than ever after the fight. But she just gave him two extra-strength ibuprofen and shooed him away. Bucky sighed and took the pills, knowing they wouldn't help much, and resigned himself to more nights of trying to sleep with an aching back and then waking up to a stiff neck.

The monster didn't waste any time before showing up again. It prowled around the edges of his mind every waking hour, and it waited to ambush his dreams for the few scant hours of sleep he managed to snatch here and there. The most common dream seemed to be Brad turning into a tentacled monstrosity that laughed while he cut his arm with a jagged piece of metal. The worst one was where Bucky held Korey down on the tiled floor while Brad stabbed him, over and over again. It didn't matter how loud he screamed. He couldn't stop it.

Whenever he jerked awake from one of these dreams, Bucky would pace up and down the confines of his tiny cell. He did his best to ignore what the monster had to say and listen to Stephanos instead. He tried to remember every encouraging thing Steve had ever said to him.

During the day, he tried to be proactive and fill the time with something other than sitting and brooding about his awful situation. If that was all he thought about, he'd be leaving himself wide open to the monster's attacks. Unfortunately, there was precious little to occupy himself with in the bing. He didn't even have other inmates' petty squabbles or the never-ending drone of television to distract him.

In the vain hope of easing the pain in his back, he did as many stretches and exercises as he could in his cell. With no one watching him, he didn't feel like he had to hold himself back, so he could just do as many one-armed push-ups as he wanted without feeling like he was drawing dangerous attention to himself. In the end, none of his exercises helped his back nearly as much as a single massage would have done, but it was better than nothing. He wished he could have gone somewhere big enough to get in a good run, but neither his cell nor the small outdoor cage were big enough to allow more than a couple strides in any direction.

Just like the last time he'd been in here, he longed to hear Steve's voice. The desire to talk to him on the phone even for a few minutes hurt like a stomachache that wouldn't go away. He got to see Matt briefly once a week, but that didn't help. It just served to remind Bucky how long it had been since he'd seen his best friend.

But if he couldn't talk to Steve, he could still write letters, couldn't he? He'd bought a legal pad from commissary early on, just in case, but he hadn't had much use for it before. Now he started filling the pages with letters to Steve.

When he'd talked to Steve on the phone, or when Steve had come to visit, Bucky tried to stay as positive as possible. He tried to put a brave face on things, because he knew Steve had it hard too. It hurt Steve to see Bucky in such a difficult situation, and it wasn't fair to make him worry more than he had to—especially not when he had so many other responsibilities weighing on him at the same time.

But when Steve wasn't sitting right there, looking at him or at least listening to every minute nuance of Bucky's voice, he found himself talking more freely than he had in what felt like forever. On the page, he didn't have to worry about anyone listening in. He didn't look up and find the words dying on his lips because Steve already looked so distressed.

I hate being here, he wrote. I know Hydra was objectively worse, but I still don't want to be here. I got so used to life with you, I don't know how to do this anymore. It's not enough that no one's using the Words or putting me into cryo. I want to be home. I want to laugh with Sam. I want to teach Jake about the world. I want to hug you again. I can't settle for anything less.

It's funny. When I first came here, I felt so out of place. I know I didn't do what they're accusing me of, so I figured I was different from everyone else in here. I thought they were all hardened criminals, violent men who would never change and never want to change.

But now I keep thinking about Korey, the kid I got into that fight about. I heard he's in here for drug possession. But then, he's actually waiting for his trial just like me, right? He's only here because he can't make bail. He might even be innocent. He's never killed anyone. He never even gets into fights, unless you count getting beat up when he gets on someone's bad side.

And Korey's just a kid. Is it right to keep him locked up here like this? Maybe he's got someone waiting for him on the outside. Maybe he's got a family waiting for him to come home too. He deserves a second chance.

Hopefully, he'll realize that he doesn't want to come back here, and he'll start making the right choices. Because I hate the thought of him getting out, only to get in trouble again and end up right back here. No one deserves to be stuck in this place. No one.

Well...maybe Brad.

He wrote letter after letter to Steve, pouring out his thoughts on the page. The only problem was actually getting the letters sent. The only way to send or receive mail was through the guards, but actually getting them to do it was another matter. Most of the time, they simply ignored any attempts to get their attention. A few took his letters, but Bucky realized he had no way of knowing whether they would actually send them in a timely fashion, if at all, until he could talk to Steve and find out if he was getting them. He was completely at their mercy.

It would have made things almost bearable if he could have gotten letters from Steve while he was in the bing. It was nowhere near as good as talking to him on the phone or seeing him in person, of course, but at least it would have meant some amount of contact with the outside world.

But why would he write to you? the sinister whisper in his ear said every time he thought about it. What would be the point? He probably doesn't even want to think about you. It hurts too much. It's too much of a distraction. He just wants to carry on with his life, without you dragging it down.

"Shut up," Bucky growled aloud each time the monster started talking like that. He would throw himself onto the ground and start doing as many push-ups as he could, moving fast and counting out loud until all he could think about was how out of breath he was.

One day, after finishing another letter to Steve, Bucky turned a page and wrote, Dear Mabel.

He stared at the words for a long time, not sure why he'd written them. And yet...writing them felt like the most natural thing for him to do. So he put the pen to the page and kept going, though he had no idea ahead of time what he was going to say.

Dear Mabel,

You'll never read these words. Maybe that's why they're so easy to write. I don't have to worry about the way you might look at me as I say them.

I'm sorry I failed you. I should have been able to save you. I should have found out what was going on soon enough to save you at least some of the pain and fear you endured. But I was too slow, and I couldn't stop them from killing you. And for that, I'm sorry.

It's not enough. I know it's not. But I am sorry. I don't have enough words to express how sorry I am.

And I love you. That's the one thing I most wish I could tell you now. I wish I'd said it before you left, even if you had no idea what I meant. I just wish you could have heard those words, just once.

Your son is alive and well. Your oldest son. We call him Jake. He looks just like his daddy—except for his hair. He has your hair. Which I guess you got from me.

I wish I could give you more than that. I wish I could give you pretty dresses. Sparkly jewelry, maybe a soft hairbrush and barrettes for when you grew your hair out. A room of your own, a warm bed, good food. Safety. All the things a father's supposed to give his daughter.

Most of all, I wish I could give you a hug. I wish I could hold you and kiss you until you smiled. I'll never be able to see you smile, at me or anyone else. That's the most precious thing Hydra stole from me, and I'll never forgive them for taking it away.

But you don't need to listen to your old man talking about his regrets. All you need to know is that I miss you. We never really got to know each other, but I miss you anyway. I carry you in my heart always.

Love,

Bucky

He stared at the way he'd closed his letter, then crossed out his name. It didn't feel right, when he was her father. But what should he call himself? She had never spoken a single word to him, let alone come up with a name for him.

Daddy? No, that was what Steve was trying to get Jake to call him.

After thinking for a moment, Bucky signed his letter simply, Papa.

For though I am absent in body, yet I am with you in spirit.

- Colossians 2:5