Chapter Text
Human life is never expendable.
That was the most crucial principle Steve lived by. As a consequence, he despised war and violence with strong repulsion.
Which was why Bucky continuously asked him why he was so eager to enlist. And it was also why Steve didn’t really have an answer.
Rationally, he knew that he was human and, as such, his worth should never be defined by his service to his country. But he never could shake the feeling that, in actuality, he wasn’t like other people. He was worthless—not because of his many illnesses or being the son of two Irish immigrants, but because he was himself.
He knew it didn’t make sense that, out of 2.3 billion people, he was the only person to truly deserve to die because of their unworthiness. But that seemed almost like an objective truth for Steve. He couldn’t help it.
Yes, it was probably because of his father. He could still feel the phantom ache of those slaps on his cheeks and how they became red by pure embarrassment when there wasn’t meat meeting meat involved.
“‘Meat meeting meat’, uh?” quoted the psychiatrist, resting his head on his fist.
“Yeah, it sounds funny,” said the boy, laughing.
The mental evaluator regarded him for another while. “The embarrassment was given by his insults, I suppose.”
“Uhm... yes. And they could be the reason why my... how do you call it? Self-esteem? That’s why it’s so low.”
It had been fourteen years since his father died. But his angry yelling and harsh beating were still embedded in Steve’s mind. It was as if, while not being in the physical realm, Iósaf Ruairí followed his every step, breathing behind his neck. He followed him when he was home, drawing, or in the city, buying groceries for his ill mother. He was in his mind when he pleaded with his mam not to die, as he was there when she finally exhaled her last breath.
He was there, reminding him how valueless, and neamhfhiúntach he was.
And every other person Steve met had always agreed with his father. Everyone—save from Bucky.
“I would love to ask about your friendship,” said the man, with a big smile, “but I am afraid we are running out of time, so let’s concentrate on what you think about enlisting.”
Steve understood. Really, he did. It just hurt a little. He had found someone who could listen while being impartial, and now that someone didn’t want to hear him talk anymore. Although he knew the evaluator had rules to follow and materially didn’t have time for him, he still couldn’t help but feel like the man despised him and thought him worthless. The fact that he was unable to read people’s emotions when they talked—since apparently God did not want to grant him that ability—certainly didn’t help. He couldn’t even understand if the doctor’s smile was real or forced.
“Well, I want to help people... isn’t that why people enlist?”
“Yes, of course…” the psychiatrist rubbed his neck, “have you ever thought that maybe you shouldn’t do it?”
That had actually happened earlier while he was in line at the entrance of Camp Upton. Simply being next to people proved to be quite taxing, and he considered that if he couldn’t stand doing that, how would he survive living with his comrades in a tiny tent? He wasn’t sure if that’s how it would be, but he was still worried. Maybe even God was against his enlisting, which explained why it rained on the 21st of September 1940. Granted, it was more like a drizzle, but it was still peculiar since that day had a high temperature of 92°F.
Then Steve had set foot in the building and probably irritated a man who gave him a little bag at the entrance to put his money in. That interaction confused him, but then, every interaction he had ever had did. Unless it was with Bucky—he always made him feel comfortable.
“I assume the physical evaluation was a nightmare for you, then.”
Oh, it was. Steve had to enter a room to undress, and once naked, save for a towel around his hips, he had to deal with feeling self-conscious; many guys used to make fun of him for his emaciated body when he was little. Then came the urine test, so he had to piss in front of everyone. After having endured that, he had been utterly sure he could get into the army.
“And so now you are here…”
Steve nodded. The evaluator put down his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
“Frankly, Rogers, I think you could be a great psychotherapist, but absolutely not a good soldier.”
That caught Steve off guard. What did he mean by that?
“You are great at understanding what your issues are. The only reason why you are still psychologically troubled is that you hate yourself. But you also love helping people, which is why you would make a great doctor.”
“And... why would I not be a fit soldier?”
“You think too damn much.”
That completely threw Steve off. He continued to think about that sentence even after he left the room to wait for his results. Why would thinking impact the ability of a soldier?
He decided to ponder that at a later date and began searching for Bucky’s brown hair, which, to its owner’s chagrin, was bare of its usual kippah or hat.
The two 20-year-olds had arrived at the Army induction center in Yaphank together. That day, they had to wake up earlier than usual—getting up had been nightmarish for Steve since he hated changing habits. But he managed to, for his life’s dream’s sake.
“Stop being dramatic, it’s not your ‘life’s dream,’” Bucky would say whenever he talked about it, rolling his eyes. “I distinctly remember you being passionate about comic books and art when we were younger. Not war.”
Regardless, after Steve dressed up with his friend’s help, the two had a relatively quick breakfast. The blond made sure he tasted every bit of oatmeal, toast, and fruit since that very well could have been his last breakfast at home—of course, Bucky once more accused him of being dramatic.
Then, they reached the station nearest to their neighborhood, Williamsburg, which was in another neighborhood, Downtown Brooklyn. Apparently, God wanted Steve to suffer that day.
The trip had been long. Really long. And there were also people there. It had been worse than getting up that morning. But then the train had stopped at Yaphank Station, and they were finally free to go.
At that point, Bucky and he had walked towards a local bus service some people at the train station had told them about—prompted by Bucky, of course. That journey had been as tiring as the one on the train, but at least it had been shorter and less expensive. Steve didn’t care about money that much since—according to his plans—he would be in the army for a long time after that but, because of his usual financial situation, he was wary of long numbers followed by a $.
After searching for Bucky for what felt like an eternity, he finally found him exiting the psychiatric evaluation room. The yehudí smiled at him and waved a hand, and Steve’s anxiety finally washed away.
At that same time, a doctor called him: “Rogers, Steven.” So he exchanged another, albeit nervous, smile with Bucky and walked to the medic’s desk.
The medical practitioner, apparently having the family name Jarlstad, opened his file. “You are a volunteer, uh? Twenty years old, born of Joseph and Sarah Rogers,” he read. Steve had to mentally stop himself from specifying that, in actuality, his parents’ names were Iósaf and Sorcha Ruairí, but they changed their names after they immigrated to the States. The man then reached the ‘Summary of patient health issues,’ looked at Steve, and said, “Sorry, son,” while gesturing at the long list. “You’d be ineligible for your asthma alone.”
With that said, he stamped an IV-F on his file. It meant ‘Rejected for military service, for physical, mental, or moral reasons,’ Steve recalled. It was the one classification he had feared the most.
“Mullen, Barnabus,” the doctor then called.
But Steve wasn’t going to give up this quickly. “Wait!” he exclaimed, “This is the only way I can be useful. Let me enlist. I’ll do my best to serve the country! Isn’t there anything you can do?”
“I’m doing it. I’m saving your life,” the doctor said without looking up from the documents on his desk. At that, Steve started to feel overwhelmed and began to tremble.
At that moment, he greatly wished to yell at the doctor about how hypocritical he was: Steve was going to die anyway of his illnesses. He wanted to scream that at least this way he could be of help for once in his life, he could be independent and make sure that Bucky could do what he wanted, instead of caring for him like his mother—now dead, because of the strain of looking after him—did.
But Bucky’s hand on his shoulder stopped him; or maybe it was his cowardice? Steve didn’t know anything anymore. He just wanted to scream, and kick, and yell, and cry.
Steve did neither.
He simply let his friend lead him away, to the dressing room. He was so in shock that he didn’t even wonder if Bucky received his admission—or rejection, like him—from another doctor, since he was done at the same time Steve was. He simply stared in front of him and let Bucky maneuver him to dress him and exit the building.
He didn’t want to think about his failure, nor about how destroyed he felt for something so stupid as enlisting; although it wasn’t stupid, not really, and people actually killed themselves over it, he heard.
He was afraid he would do the same and render his mam’s caring, her damned death, pointless. So he simply shut down and observed as the world decided what would happen to his body, subconsciously knowing that Bucky would safeguard it.
When he regained his wits, he found himself on his favorite sofa, in the apartment he and Bucky shared. He was crouched in a ball, and he could feel the weight of his favorite blanket on his shoulders, and Bucky’s hand in his hair.
It wasn’t the first time he had an episode like this, nor was he the only one to have them: sometimes he would find Bucky staring off into space with a flat expression, responding to him with a monotone and disjointed speech, and he would wait for him to return as normal with a concerned expression. Bucky would always remind him that the same happened to Steve, even more often, so there was nothing to worry about. Steve would still fret, and he knew that Bucky also worried for the both of them.
“What happened?” Steve slurred. He did observe what happened, but then his memory of everything became foggy.
His voice surprised Bucky, who stopped his hand for a moment, only to start carding his fingers through the blond’s locks again. “We exited Camp Upton, took the bus, the train and returned home. I dressed you in your pajamas,” he informed.
“Did you get in?” Steve timidly asked.
His friend sighed. “No, I did not, because your plan was doomed to fail, and you should have known it. Why did you insist on trying? I have never bought your excuse with rent.”
Steve looked at him with what felt like an empty expression. “I… I didn’t want to be a burden for you.”
“You are not a burden to me!” Bucky straightened out, seemingly indignant. “You are my dearest friend, and I help you because I want to, just like you help me because I am your friend.”
“Though,” Steve started, feeling like he had no energy to live anymore, “you can’t deny that there’s quite a lot of difference between what you do for me and what I do for you.”
Steve never had to dress him, nor to talk to other people in his place. He didn’t do the majority of house chores.
“Our situations are different, and you know it. Just like you know there is no shame in needing more help than others. Everyone has different support needs.”
“Still,” Steve continued, “you can’t deny that there is no use in helping me, at the end of the day. I am going to die anyway, and I will have done nothing to help anyone.”
At that, Bucky took away his hand from Steve’s hair and stood up, enraged. “Are you kidding me!? Would you say the same thing were I in your place? Are you telling me that you truly believe that people have no worth if they need help and do nothing to society?”
Steve opened his mouth, but nothing exited from there, so he closed it.
“See? You always say these hurtful things to yourself, but you don’t actually believe them for anyone else. Why do you keep hurting yourself?” Bucky started to cry.
“I am sorry,” Steve hoarsely whispered.
Bucky shook his head. “You are only sorry because you said something bad about other people, and you made me cry, aren’t you?”
Steve looked down in shame.
Bucky shook his head again and hugged his friend. “Please, even if you are not able to love yourself, remember that I do love you.” And with that, he nuzzled into his neck.
“I’ll try,” was the only response Steve could manage.