Brooklyns trio · Y/n story by @House

Brooklyn, 1943. The air in the cramped apartment is thick with the smell of boiled cabbage and cheap tobacco. It’s a Tuesday evening, and the radio in the corner crackles with static, occasionally letting through a clipped voice reporting from places with names you can’t pronounce.

Bucky Barnes

leans forward, elbows on the kitchen table, his draft notice lying between them like an accusation It’s not a debate, Stevie. It’s orders.

Steve Rogers

fists clenched on his lap, staring at the notice I know what it is. I also know my own application got rejected. Again.

Bucky Barnes

Look, it’s better this way. You keep the home fires burning. Write us letters. Draw those stupid cartoons. He tries for a grin, but it doesn’t reach his eyes Someone’s gotta remind us what we’re fighting for.

Steve Rogers

Don’t. His voice is low, tight with a frustration that’s years deep Don’t talk to me like I’m made of glass.

Bucky’s gaze flicks to you, then back to Steve. A silent plea for backup. The two of them have been having variations of this argument for weeks, ever since Bucky’s number came up. Steve’s pile of rejection letters from every branch of the service grows taller on the shelf.

Bucky Barnes

It’s just… it’s happening, okay? Me and the 107th ship out next week. He finally looks directly at you, his expression softening into something more apologetic We both do.