Big brain idea -- why not try writing a short introduction and a one shot all in one?

So! This is a Stucky story, a gay marvel story, y'all know how it is. Credit to these prompts goes to Mia Botha; the characters in this story belong to Marvel and Stan Lee/Jack Kirby.

Trigger warnings: at the top of each story that requires a warning, I will put a trigger warning. Just eyeballing the prompts and knowing how I write, here's a list of things to keep an eye out for if you're sensitive to it:

- Depictions of violence and death
- Swearing (usually starred out; for example, f*ck, sh*t, *ss)
- General angst
- Mentions of depression, anxiety, PTSD, and insomnia (depending on the chapter)

I will write these in whichever way works! Sometimes I take the prompts literally -- mainly I twist the idea of a prompt so it may not be exactly what you think ;) so anyway! On to the first chapter!

//// Day Ten ////

December 14, 1943

Steve,

It's been ten days since I've left home, and it feels like ages. God, why did I decide that I was gonna enlist in the dead of autumn and be freezing my *ss off in some upper part of wherever we are (I do know where we are, just can't tell ya)

Miss sittin by the fire with you by my side, Stevie. Miss your really terrible watery soup. (I love ya but that soup is genuinely awful)!

Anyways, I'm running out of ink, so I should prob'ly wrap this up. I'm excited to be home. Sorry I didnt get you a present this year, next one's gonna be great, you wait and see. I'll be thinkin about you, pal.

Stay safe, punk

Your Bucky

The letter sat folded on the table and Steve didn't feel it in him to try and get up. Laying on the couch, shivering, their two very thin blankets covering him, he wasn't sure he was going to make it through the day.

Eyeing the letter, Steve, in a single, jerky movement, grasped at his sketchbook and pencil he'd thankfully dropped close enough to reach.

Trying to steady his eyes, focus long enough to write something, anything, he shakily drafted his own letter before sinking lower into the fever he'd been fighting.

The pencil slipped from his hand.

////

Buck,

Its been a long time. Are you safe? I've got a bug of some kind, fever, ill be allright though. Come home when you can okay? Be safe

Yours, Steve

////

Bucky woke in a cold sweat and realised he wouldn't be getting any more sleep. Sliding from his cot, he slowly got dressed and tried to keep his mind from straying to Steve -- already his work ethic was slipping, so wrought with worry over his friend.

Shivering in the damp cold, he wrapped his arms around himself and trudged over to the fire. There sat two soldiers on watch, talking softly. He wordlessly joined them and pulled out some paper.

"Writin' home to the missus?"

Bucky looked up to see the younger soldier glancing at his page. Smiling faintly, he nodded, pressing the pen to his lips as he thought.

"What's her name?"

The second soldier, bigger and older, shared a glance with Bucky, who hesitated a moment. "Stevie," he finally said. "Short for Stephanie," he added hastily, and the young soldier nodded, clearly picturing his own version of "Stevie" in his mind -- obviously tall, blonde and beautiful.

And, he was beautiful to Bucky.

Bucky chewed on the pen and finished writing, waited for it to dry and tucked it into his jacket pocket, pressed against his chest.

Staring up at the stars, Bucky clenched his jaw and bit back a sigh. He only wanted Steve to be okay.

////

January 25, 1944

Stevie,

I wish I were home with ya. You know I miss you like crazy, right? If I could find myself home now, I'd be there.

Why dont you reach out to Mrs. Goldberg? I know she ain't your favourite person in the world but she could keep an eye on you. You feeling any better? Write me as soon as you can, punk.

Thinkin of ya,

Your Bucky

////

Spring came and went. Steve clung to the hope that Bucky would return soon, and had better times himself -- when he could move around, when he managed to scrap together enough change to pay the rent by doing tasks for Mrs. Goldberg, the landlord. When he recieved Bucky's letter in the mail and relief swept over him like a numbing drug and suddenly everything was okay because Bucky was still alive.

Steve idly ran his thumb over the rough paper as he read the familiar chicken scratch. Every ink blot and loopy 'y' written made his chest ache with the feeling of missing a part of yourself and the security of routine.

Without Bucky, it was hard to feel that, that warmth in his chest that reminded him he was alive and wouldn't be cold and sick forever.

May 17, 1944

Bucky,

Sounds like Gibson needs a good clock on the jaw. Want me to barge in? I could take him in a fight, easy. Sounds like a real knucklehead.

Hope you're taking care of yourself, Buck, you tend to put others before yourself too much. You're staying outta trouble, right? I'd hate to visit you in the clunker.

I'm doing fine, chests been a little tight but it's probably just asthma. Besides that, I'm peachy.

Stay safe, promise?

Yours, Stevie

////

Steve,

Of course, punk. I can't promise when I'll be home, but as soon as I'm cleared I'm coming back.

Your Bucky

////

"Sergeant Barnes?"

Bucky pushed himself up from the ground, wiping a hand over his face, red with exertion. He nodded his thanks as he accepted the letter and folded it open, breathing hard from his workout.

Then his blood flushed cold in his veins and his grip on the paper tightened.

"No, no, godd*mn it," he murmured, tears prickling his eyes as panic started to climb up his chest, throat closing. "Sh*t," he hissed as he hurriedly began throwing his things into his single suitcase.

"Sergeant?"

Bucky didn't spare him a second glance, struggling to not spiral into a panic because his Steve -- his Stevie -- was dying.

"I'm going home."

////

It was a week later when Bucky burst through the door and made a beeline for Steve's room. The doctor stopped him with a hand on his chest.

"Mr. Barnes, his fever is incredibly high, I'm afraid I can't -- "

"I don't want him to be alone in this," Bucky breathed. After another moment's hesitation, the doctor let him pass.

Bucky's gaze fell upon Steve, lying motionless in bed, looking blearily back at him. Bucky moved to his side and clutched at his hand. Steve just stared at him, unsure if once again he's dreaming of Bucky's return home or if this is some alternate reality.

He decided he didn't care either way, because Bucky was there and his hand was warm and alive -- Bucky was alive. A tired smile lit up Steve's pale face.

"Buck," he breathed, shallowly, his head throbbing with the word. Bucky squeezed his hand and tried to smile back.

"Hey, Stevie," he hushed and brushed his hair from his forehead. "I'm sorry I took so long."

"You're here? You're home?" Steve's voice wavered, cracked; Bucky's chest tightened. Home was clutching the hand of his best friend, home was looking into his glassy blue eyes and trying to find a smile even though all he wants is to cry and plead with him to be okay. Home was sitting in the dimly lit room and taking in the sight of Steve Rogers like he hadn't seen him in years.

"Told you I'd come home," he replied, a gentle murmur, and Steve sank into the sound and closed his eyes. "'M gonna take care of you, okay?"

Steve smiled half-heartedly. "Okay, Buck."

////

This one is late off the bat but I won't miss the others! This one was a little slow, but I was going for a more quiet show of love :) Lemme know what you thought!