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“Let's play soldiers,” Steve said when they were eight. Bucky had never played soldiers before, on account of only having sisters and being mostly preoccupied with baseball, but he'd play because Steve asked. It was summer and bright and they had guns made of sticks and rocks for bullets. Steve took a gut shot like a hero and died in Bucky's skinny arms. Old Mr. McGrady across the street shouted at them to knock it off because some people around those parts had already been to war and didn't want to see empty-headed kids making it a game. They ran off giggling.
“Let's play soldiers,” Steve said when they were eleven. Steve had pneumonia again and couldn't get out of bed. He stayed in bed and gave Bucky, his commanding officer, a rundown of the explosion he'd survived. He moaned in pain and Bucky went along with it though his heart pounded hard. It wasn't as fun now that Bucky had heard Steve make that same sound for real, out of his mind with fever, not two days before, but he'd play because Steve asked.
“Let's play soldiers,” Steve said when they were fifteen. They were too old to be playing games, Bucky knew, but he'd play because Steve asked. Bucky wrapped his arm around Steve's shoulders and they huddled together in their foxhole, hunching their shoulders and ducking their heads against enemy fire. Huddling together like that only led to one thing for them, and Steve said he heard some fellas out at the docks talk about how sometimes that was unspoken part of war. Any port in a storm, they said. Bucky didn't say anything. He didn't see any storm.
“Let's play soldiers,” Steve said when they were twenty-five, another 4F stamped on another form. Steve wouldn't give it up, said he couldn't in good conscience not fall into formation and do his part. Steve always had wanted to be a soldier. Europe was in chaos and Uncle Sam needed more men. Bucky had yet to see what Uncle Sam had done for him first. He knew people were getting hurt and he felt for them, he did, but he didn't want Steve to go. The only thing Bucky could do was follow him, or lead him there, maybe. He didn't want to play anymore, but he'd play because Steve asked.
“Let's play soldiers,” Steve said when they were twenty-seven, whispered into Bucky's sweaty neck, one hand brushing Bucky's damp hair off his forehead and the other wrapped tight around his waist. Bucky had just screamed them both awake after another nightmare of tables and needles and Zola's glasses twinkling above him. Steve was putting together a team to take down HDYRA. Steve was the leader. Steve needed backup and Bucky was the best at what he did. He didn't want to do it anymore. He was tired and cold and his body didn't hurt when it should. It wasn't a game, but he'd play because Steve asked.