One Night In Brooklyn | Bucky Barnes 1940's

Spring of 1945

March

By the 6 month mark she received word that Steve had been injured. It was nothing serious, and he wouldn't be sent home. Peggy was a wreck. She spent the entire weekend on Eloise's couch, weeping. Eloise would've secretly thought she was being far too emotional if it had been a year ago. But nowadays, she felt closer to breaking down during her everyday activities than she had in a long time. Watching Peggy curled up under a blanket on her couch made Eloise think about her own mother. She felt a rush of both guilt and anger running through her body, which was the usual rush of emotions any time she let herself think about the woman she barely remembered. But there was something else this time, a strange tugging at her heart, something she had become more familiar with recently. When she envisioned that far away ghost of a person, a young woman, a young mother, hunched over the kitchen table in a brick house in Connecticut, unable to eat, or speak or spare any time for Eloise, there was a sudden and peculiar feeling of sympathy.

Eloise hadn't prayed since she was forced to at the monastery. And she had never had much faith in god after what had happened to her parents. But in a moment of desperation, imagining the unthinkable, she found herself closing her eyes one night and whispering a soft "please keep him safe" to whoever or whatever, was listening. If it was listening. If it had ever been listening.

The next letter she wrote to Bucky wasn't as light hearted. She explained, for the first time, how scared she was feeling. How she had seen Peggy cry for an entire week after finding out what had happened to Steve, which thankfully hadn't been anything serious. She told him about how it had awakened something inside of her. For the first time ever she put in writing, that she was feeling closer to her mother than she ever had before. That she wished even that she may have been able talk to her, ask her how she managed to get through the days when the person she cared for most in the entire world was away. When everything about his return or wellbeing was uncertain. When news traveled so slow that, by the time you learned anything of importance, it was too late. These were thoughts she had never dared express before. But it felt oddly safe to stuff it in between the slanted lines of light beige paper that she marked with Bucky's name.

The night before sending the letter, Eloise sat in her rocking chair. A soft melody played from the corner of the room as she sat with her knees pressed to her chest, swaying calmly. She had decided to move her radio into the bedroom a couple of weeks ago. The noise in the back helped her sleep. She looked out of the window, watching the rain drizzle onto the people walking by. She held the button in her hand, pressing it against her fingers. She had put it away safely in her jewelry box. But she only ever managed to leave it there for a day at a time. She found that fidgeting with the button calmed her. Carrying it with her felt like a shield of some sorts. She pressed it into the palm of her hand and closed her fingers around it, holding her closed fist to her lips and whispering softly, "come back to me...come back to me...come back to me..."

May

It had been 8 months when the news first came. Eloise woke up with a gasp as her front door almost splintered beneath banging fists. She had fallen asleep on the couch, in her work clothes, again. Every part of her body felt sore. For a split second the worst possible assumption flashed through her mind. What if she opened the door to find the bearer of unthinkable news on the other side. She decided to stay on the couch. Her hands clutched one of the pillows hard as she tried to steady her breath. 

"Eloise! Open up!" She heard Peggy's voice.

When Eloise finally opened the front door, Peggy just about tripped inside. As soon as she managed to find her footing, she opened the newspaper wide across her face. "Look Eloise! Look!" She cried. The large bold print stretched over both pages. "Germany Surrenders!".

Eloise had to blink a couple times. She ripped the paper from Peggy's hands, her eyes jumping along the columns frantically.

"They're coming home, Eloise!" Peggy hugged her, sobbing into her shoulder.

The two women stood in the hallway, one of them sobbing joyfully, the other in complete silence, her hand still tightly holding onto the New York Times.

From that moment on, Peggy walked on clouds. But Eloise wasn't nearly as care-free to receive the news. She wrote a 12 page letter to Bucky, urging him to respond quickly, asking over and over again if it was true. Was he coming home? What did a German surrender mean for the US? Did he know when he was coming home? What about Japan? Was he actually coming home?

It was a week later when Eloise got word through the post.

Dear Ms. Eloise.

My name is Private Sam Wilson. I am writing to you on behalf of Sergeant Barnes. Two days before Germany's surrender, our team was sent out on a rescue mission. Sergeant Barnes acted bravely to save the life of his men, and while doing so put his own life in danger. He has been returned to our camp and is currently being treated for his injuries by our best medics. He is predicted to make a full recovery. He has been put under heavy sedation to make sure he is at his most comfortable state while healing. He suffered a fall which resulted in heavy tearing on his left arm and shoulder. Our medics have managed to save the arm, and they have assured me that his mobility will fully return with the help of the right exercises and time.

I hope that these news don't worry you too much, Ms. I want you to remember that he is in safe hands, and that the war here is over. We are expected to be returning home in groups as soon as possible, and he will be back to you by Christmas at the latest.

I hope you and your loved ones are well.

Sam Wilson.

Eloise stared blankly at the tiles on her kitchen floor. Her shoulders, which had tensed while reading, were now slumped and heavy. She began to feel dizzy. She doesn't remember how long she sat there. But her mind twitched back to reality as soon as she smelt something burning. She ran over to the stove, moving and covering the pot that was now spitting flames. In the moment, she didn't think to grab an oven mitt and touched the hot ceramic handle with her bare hands. She flung it into the sink, watching it break and crash as the heat blistered her hand.

The pain seared the skin of her palm. And she was glad to feel it. Pulling her away from the aching in her chest and the twisting in her stomach. She wished she could cry. But there were no tears. No sadness. Just anger. Just rage.

"He's okay. He's okay. He's okay" She kept repeating over and over again to herself. A low hum. a whisper. Her fingers found the green button, now threaded carefully through a rope around her neck, tucked beneath layers of clothing and resting against her skin. "He's okay. He's okay. He's okay"