What I wouldn’t God damn give, Bucky finally manages, for you to have been this healthy three years ago, that winter when you almost died on me in the middle of the night from that rattle in your chest. I spent one month scared as hell that you were going to stop breathing and then two weeks worrying that the next time you coughed there’d be blood in your hand, and you’d be gone from me just like that, same way as your mama before you, God rest her soul. I didn’t think I could stand it, having to bury you. Even now I’d rather eat my own gun than see you dead.

Bucky’s hands don’t shake when he’s scared or nervous anymore; he wouldn’t be the best sniper in the US Army if they did. It’s been beaten out of him well and good. But he feels something burning and panicked rush through him all the same as the truth stares back at him from the page.

I hate them, Bucky continues. He can’t stop now. He could never say this out loud. The fact is terrifying and giddy. I hate them for what they did to you. You won’t ever understand that, I don’t think. I mean, sure, I’m glad that you’re finally in one piece and I don’t have to worry about a strong wind knocking you over. I’m glad you don’t have bad lungs and that it doesn’t hurt when you walk for too long. The outside finally matches the inside, and now everyone — the whole world, I guess — can see just what it is you’re made of. I’m not mad about that.

It’s selfish maybe but I didn’t want you out here. When I shipped out I kept thinking, at least he’s stowed away safe. I even thought, when I get myself killed out there, maybe it’ll convince him to stop trying to get in. And that was the one good thing I had in my head every time I was listening to enemy fire, convinced I wasn’t making the march back. So what if you volunteered, like you said. You’ve always been your own. The one thing you’ve always been, hell or high water, is your own. Can’t deny you that. I would never try besides. But you’re going to see killing, these next couple days. You’re going to see the truth of the world, and the hell that lives inside. So answer me this, and be honest now: Isn’t that just trading out one sickness for another?