To the man who changed it all,
Bucky Barnes. James Buchanan Barnes. The Winter Soldier. Cinnamon Roll?
You’ve been called everything, from a best friend to a ghost story, but nothing can describe you. I’ve been fangirling over you for 10.5263158% percent of my life (literally, I did the math and it’s actually that much), and I still don’t have the words.
Do you know what you’ve done? I used to be logical. I used to be a normal human being. Now even hearing the word “rusted” reduces me to a quivering puddle of feels. One glance at your face and I’m incapable of creating intelligent sentences. Your voice- I hear it, and I’m transported to some place timeless.
Sure, you’ve done terrible things. You’ve killed people and trained monsters. But the fact that you’ve been brainwashed wipes you of any guilt. If your lawyers can’t clear your crimes, just hire some fangirls to convince the judge of your innocence. We’ll even do it for free. We’re an army, and our sole purpose in life is to bring you plums, give you hugs, and protect you from harm.
Not that you’d need any help. You’re obviously pretty capable of protecting yourself. I mean, you’ve got seven thousand guns including your arms, a murderous glare, and killer good looks. Man, I could watch you fight all day. In fact, I have.
Bucky, you’re beautiful. You’ve blessed the world with your ferocity and started an army of Winter’s Children so obsessed with your well-being that if the Russo’s ever do you any harm, they won’t know what hit them.
Happy 100th Birthday, Bucky Barnes.
Fangirls everywhere, but particularly me.