Chapter Text
Chapter 1 – Epistolary Grovel
It all started with a letter.
An honest-to-God, handwritten letter on handmade laid paper from the 1940s, envelope sealed with wax. "BHS", the stamp read. Steve liked the weight of it in his hand, wanted to put it up to his nose to smell it, but then he'd already have lost. Whoever wrote this letter knew what they were doing, knew how to sneak past his defenses. He should be on high alert. Instead, he felt... wooed. Someone had given the simple act of communicating with him a lot of thought and research, and that he could respect.
It was the only reason, really, he didn't dismiss Bunny outright. That, and she'd taken the time to reseal the wax after reading the contents, which Steve appreciated. He didn't like to think of how many people had read it before him, the chain of custody any correspondence had to go through just to get to Bunny's desk, let alone into the small pile of fan mail and requests he responded to every week. He'd seen it once, the mail room at Avengers Tower. Over fifty bags delivered daily. Three entrances: one for courier deliveries, one for business mail, one for Avengers letters. A staff of hundreds sifting and scanning with peak efficiency, in safety gear that guarded against bombs, toxins, and alien tech. Even the postmaster at Avengers Tower had to be trained in espionage techniques and biochemical weapons.
It could be a bit overwhelming, even now, three years out of the ice. Steve wanted to give back, he really did, but he'd learned the hard way to rely on Bunny and Pepper and JARVIS, the safeguards put in place so that he could concentrate all his energy on saving the world. His life would never be normal; he'd accepted that. Hell, he'd volunteered. But in the future, everyone wanted a piece of you, and Steve... well, Steve was still trying to figure out his place in all this.
But he loved answering letters from the sick kids he couldn't get to, who lived on the other side of the country or the world. He devoted an afternoon each week to their drawings and chicken scratches, saving them all in the Avengers Tower archive vault—another thing Steve could have never imagined would be necessary after he became a superhero—after a two-week rotation on his living room wall. The kids got a reply from him and a picture of their work displayed, also courtesy of Bunny, who deserved a raise for meticulousness and devotion. (Steve baked her cookies once a month as his own small 'thank you for your service'.)
So when Bunny suggested he read the letter written on the lovely old stationery but clearly not sent by a child, he took her at her word. If this letter made it through all those checkpoints, past all those discerning eyes, into his overlarge hands, it must be something special. Steve nudged the plate of cookies—oatmeal chocolate chip with coconut shavings—toward her before retreating to his custom-made comfy armchair for the small illusion of privacy.
To: Captain Steven G. Rogers
Avengers Tower
Grand Central Station
NYC
Dear Captain Rogers,
Hi. Hello. If this is actually you reading this, then I should probably say it's an honor before I lose my nerve. It's the first time I've ever written to a living legend—sorry, sorry, you probably hate that, but it's the truth. Most of the people I write about shuffled off this mortal coil a long time ago... the historian's curse. Which I am. A historian, I mean. No curses so far, unless you count my neighbor, Mrs. Maguire. But who doesn't like Shostakovich blasting through their wall at 10 pm, am I right?
I should probably get around to saying why I'm writing. In case you hadn't noticed, I don't much like formality. Might make an ass of me, but I thought you might feel the same. So here it is... I'm a history prof by day and work with the Brooklyn Historical Society a few evenings a week. Sometimes weekend afternoons. Anyway, we are organizing an exhibit about how the neighborhood has changed over the recent century, with a focus on architecture and local businesses. You probably can guess where I'm going with this...
I know. I really do. I did some time in war zones as a combat photographer. Coming home was indescribably horrible in so many ways, and I can't even begin to imagine what it must have been like for you. But I'm a historian, and so insatiably curious, and this is our home turf, so... well. Shooting my shot. Brooklyn pride and all that.
I want to promise you right off the bat that we would take such good care of you. Recording history is preserving memories, moments, the forgotten, the mundane, the indelible. I realize that I'm asking something that might be incredibly painful from you, but if you agreed to share some of your memories with us—nothing too personal—it would definitely get some of our youngest minds thinking about the past in a way they never have before. I see this every day in my classes, this spark, this desire to know where they come from and how things were before. Everything these days is so new, next, now—it distracts them, let me tell you. But your involvement would mean a way in, and that might be... worth it? For you? I hope?
Off the soapbox now. That's my pitch. If you're interested, or even if you'd just like to get a better idea of what we're about and what you'd be committing to, send me an email. Details below. Disgustingly modern, but what can I say? Technology has its uses. (If you need me to grovel, I will grovel. We're a small outfit, not a lot of funding, and this would mean not just the world to us, but our survival for the foreseeable future. And we'll be gentle, I swear.)
If you've read this far, I'm amazed and vaguely flattered. It truly has been an honor. Hope to hear from you.
Sincerely,
J.B. Barnes, PhD
Brooklyn Historical Society
P.S.: The name. You might be wondering. I come by it honestly. Have Stark's people check me out.
P.P.S.: I hope it doesn't freak you out too much. If it does, we have lots of people here who will take just as good care of you as I would. And who can endure my jealousy. Just want what's best for the team, truly.
P.P.P.S.: If this really is you... thank you. I love this city. Thank you for keeping us safe.
Steve read the letter over three times, perplexed, but also, he had to admit, charmed. Most people who wrote to him or met him were too busy falling all over themselves to treat him like a person. Dr. Barnes clearly didn't have that problem—in print. One-on-one might be another matter... and Steve caught up with himself before he committed to this, internally if not officially. Charm offensive notwithstanding, Dr. Barnes was asking for Steve to reveal parts of his life to him that he had never discussed publicly, and even if he decided to trust him with that (questionable), Barnes would have to do a lot more to earn it.
And then there was the name thing. Steve had been told—and teased, really, by everyone, he couldn't escape it—that he and the Howling Commandos topped the most popular male baby name charts in the early 1950s, in every possible variation of Steven, Roger, Grant, Monty, Gabe, Timothy, and Morita, not to mention the thousands of James Buchanans. Heck, even Peggy had named her boys Grant and Barney. The trend petered out by the '60s, but had boomed again once he'd emerged from the ice. Dr. Barnes didn't sound like he was in his fifties or sixties, but then maybe he came from a family of historians. Or military, since he'd mentioned combat. Or maybe...
It wasn't impossible, Jamie unknowingly fathering a child. He'd certainly gotten around enough, here and in Europe. Steve had searched for all the Howlies' descendents after the Battle of New York, but hadn't for Jamie, hadn't been able to bring himself to see what happened to Becca or Alice or Winnie with their brother gone, their guiding light. Had the SSR even informed them of his death?
Steve shivered, shut his eyes. The wind's bite, the howl of the train whistle, the sickening whine of the door handle as Jamie thudded out of reach. Steve's final link to home, to family whipping back and forth like a leaf in a gale as Steve stretched and stretched toward him. The balance of his weight tipping dangerously over in the seconds before Jamie fell. The last look they shared one of absolution, of acceptance, before fear overtook him and he screamed to his death.
They'd found him the next morning, the Howlies, beached on the riverside. Steve had scraped his hands raw digging into the frozen ground to bury him, on the battlefield, like a soldier deserved. They couldn't chance that someone might intercept his body in transit, if they sent him home. Couldn't stomach the idea of Jamie being used against him in some malicious fashion only Hydra devils dreamt of. It didn't escape Steve's notice that now, almost a century later, someone might be trying to do just that.
He wiped his eyes with the heel of his palm and gave himself a second before turning to find Bunny, watching a video on her phone, half the cookies gone.
"The post-script?" Steve asked.
Bunny startled, but didn't miss a beat. "Legit."
"Legit how?"
"He's a descendant."
"Of Jamie Barnes?" Steve felt proud that his voice only broke a little on that last 'S', given his grief turned shock. Or shock tinged with grief. Whatever you'd call the black hole in the center of his chest. "Did we know about this?"
Mug of tea halfway to her lips, Bunny froze. Steve watched her replay the last few minutes in her mind, curse herself, and set her phone aside. She brought the plate of cookies over to him, setting them in his lap before perching on the couch.
"According to Agent Romanoff—" And Steve could have kicked himself, because of course she'd involve Natasha. "—we did. SHIELD did. They monitored him like all the other descendants in case Hydra approached him, but nothing ever pinged. He is who he says he is, and the request, as far as we can tell, is in earnest."
"But how is he related to Jamie? Grandson? Great-grandson?"
"Agent Romanoff requested that I say, and I quote, 'If you're so interested, maybe you should find out for yourself.'" Bunny clutched her hands together in a prayer-like pose, gaze flicking to the cookie plate, but held her ground. It was the first time she'd ever seemed nervous around Steve, and he didn't like it. "I hope it's clear, Captain Rogers—"
"Steve, Bunny. It's Steve."
She didn't even stop for a breath. "I would never, under any circumstances—"
"It's okay, Bunny, thank you. I'll be keeping this one." Steve resisted the urge to press the letter to his chest, like a war widow. "Can we save the rest for later? I'll do double time next week."
"Of course."
The elevator doors had barely closed behind her when Steve called Natasha. An alarm blared in the background when she picked up, underscored by the clack of marching footsteps. She sounded out of breath.
"Bad time?" Steve asked, when she didn't greet him.
"I can multitask." A cranking noise gave away that she was on a ship of some kind.
"Submarine?"
"Helicarrier." He heard the flat murmur of radio jargon as she entered the bridge. "We might cut out, we're about to take off."
"I'll take my chances." Steve traced a finger along Dr. Barnes's ragged cursive, wondering how to approach this. Natasha with an agenda was never the most forthcoming, even if it was an agenda he could get behind. "I read the letter."
"Oooh! Give me a sec." She moved away from the background chatter, then he heard a door shut. "And what did you make of Dr. Smartypants? Quite a way with words, don't you think?"
"He's something," Steve hedged. "Was hoping you could shed some light."
She barked a laugh. "Where would be the fun in that?"
"Natasha," he sighed.
"Steven," she snipped, then chuckled. "Have I ever sent you on a wild goose chase?"
He sighed again, heavily. "No."
"Have I ever failed to have your back?"
Steve grunted at the irony. She'd been assigned to his detail just after he'd thawed out. The word he'd use to describe that time would be 'suffocating'. But then somehow, over the years, the chokehold had become an embrace. He trusted her like no one else, to protect him above all. Of course she knew everything from how Barnes took his coffee to who he'd last shared a bed with to which side he hung on. Steve just resented that she was sending him in blind.
"What kind of minefield am I walking into here? Can you at least tell me that? Is this guy really Jamie's grandson?"
As always, Natasha heard what he didn't ask her. "No. But he is a relative. I think you should let him fill you in on the rest himself. He is a historian, after all. Don't want to steal all of his thunder."
Steve laughed despite himself. "Right." He tapped a finger on the very end of the page, the email address. "So you think I should do this?"
"I think it's been a long time since you've had a real adventure." Steve would have rolled his eyes at her mom-ing him if it wasn't, well, the truth. "And, look, you don't have to tell him anything you're uncomfortable with. You hold all the cards."
That he did, Steve had to concede. He smiled to himself. One of the reasons he trusted Natasha was because she had this way of caring for him while also protecting him. And Steve, despite his belligerent streak, found it a lot more enjoyable to give in.
But that didn't mean he couldn't be a little bit stubborn about it.
"I'm not the best writer," he griped, with a touch more defeatedness than he felt. "I don't think I can compete with... this."
"Then don't write back to him."
"I'm not cold-calling someone trying to get something from me. He needs to work for it."
"And he will, if you give him a chance."
He tried to ignore the smirk in her voice as he asked, "What have you got?" Because if there was one thing a Black Widow always had, it was a contingency plan.
"The Smithsonian is giving out awards for the best student essays of the year." The sudden roar of engines would have drowned her out, if not for his super-hearing. "Guess whose student won the American History prize?"
"You don't say."
"Ceremony's early next week. Carnegie Hall. They're looking for a special guest to present her the award. She wrote about the lives of queer couples in the U.S. internment camps in World War II."
Steve suffered a pang of guilt, like he always did when he heard about the camps that had sprung up on both sides during the war. He should have worked harder to survive. Should have found a way to help liberate them. He cleared his throat. "And Barnes will be there?"
"Student gets an award and cash prize, teacher gets a donation for the school."
"Couldn't have planned it better yourself," Steve quipped, then thought better. "Did you plan it?"
She let out a fulsome, almost flirty laugh. "It does sound like me, but no. Not this time. He's just that good of a teacher."
Steve held fast against a full-body shudder. He could not start thinking of Jamie's potential grandson that way. Competence. It was a thing with him.
"Sign me up," Steve said before he could stop himself. No obligation, he reminded himself, to move forward with this after he meets him. Neutral ground, a few polite words, scope him out, nothing more. Barnes doesn't even have to know he read the letter.
"Great." Steve didn't miss the surprise in her voice, not sure if it was faked. But he definitely heard the innuendo when she declared, "Operation Meet Cute is a go."
***
Best laid plans and all that, Bucky thought to himself as he herded a gaggle of giggling schoolgirls up the escalators and into the bustling lobby of Zankel Hall, about as easy as guiding a group of actual geese through the mix of students, teachers, and parents. Because they were his students and he'd taught them well, Monica, Kamala, and Karli stopped cold as soon as they entered the auditorium proper, awed by the modernist look of the place, the sandy wood panels and hard angles of the boxy design. If he'd been asked, Bucky would have told them he didn't much care for it—a concert hall shouldn't look like a packing crate, in his humble opinion—but then he was too busy searching for Monica's parents.
Locating the statuesque and, frankly, intimidating as hell Captain Rambeau proved to be no trouble at all. At six-foot-three she tended to stand out in a crowd, especially waiting at the end of an aisle with her arms crossed and a frown on her face. Bucky winced inwardly as he pointed her out to Monica, only too aware that he was at least partly responsible for her annoyance. Though a half-hour early for the event itself, they were, by any estimation, also a half-hour late, since students receiving prizes had been expected to check in... well, Bucky didn't want to think about it.
Because she was a class act, Captain Rambeau only had smiles for Monica and her two best friends.
"Girls! Finally!" She opened her arms to receive them in an enveloping hug.
Bucky could have used one of those right about now, what with the subway and the traffic and the "OMG! Look at this!" he'd had to deal with all the way from Crown Heights, but he would not complain. No, ma'am.
"And look who's here!" she exclaimed, as Major Danvers wormed her way out into the aisle to join them. With the girls distracted by the arrival of everyone's favorite Air Force pilot, Captain Rambeau rounded on him. "Barnes."
Bucky sighed. "Maria. Pleasure as always. Thank you for agreeing to look after Kamala and Karli while we're up there."
"You're late."
He couldn't do anything but nod. "We are. In my defense, we didn't exactly have a Town Car come pick us up."
"I would have sent one."
"I know," Bucky conceded. "The school and I both appreciate your generosity. But the Tea Room afterwards is enough. The girls are so excited."
Captain Rambeau huffed, but seemed to mellow. "Try not to turn that into another history lesson. This is the one day our family's together this month and I won't have it spoiled."
"Hate to break it to you, but my history lessons are kind of what got us here," Bucky chuckled. "That, and Monica's talent."
Unable to argue with that and too aware of the time, Captain Rambeau turned to give Monica a few whispered words of advice, then surrendered her to Bucky once more. They spoke to three different ushers before finding the one who could escort them backstage. After checking in and getting their lanyards, a harried PA shepherded them to the green room with the rest of the award recipients. The tables in the very tight room had been assigned by subject matter. Bucky and Monica found their two designated seats taken by a suave, generously mustached man and a sweet-looking girl in a sparkly hair band, the winners for European history. After a few minutes of stilted conversation, Bucky nodded towards the door. Monica, catching the hint, faked a stomach cramp.
"We can't go back there," she blurted as soon as they'd snuck into the backstage hall. "If I have to listen to one more fact about Marie Antoinette, I really am gonna hurl."
"I know the feeling," Bucky agreed. "History conferences, not for the faint of heart." He scanned the program he'd nabbed from their table. "Our category is... Shit, we're on last."
"Dr. Barnes," Monica whined, not because of his accidental swear, but at the idea of waiting in that room for so long.
"Trust me, I'm on it. We just need to find a quiet corner to ride this out in. Somewhere we can keep tabs of what's going on, but with room to breathe." And panic, Bucky didn't add. Several of his former colleagues were going to be at this thing; his third criteria for a secret space was somewhere he wouldn't run into any of them.
Pretending to guide Monica to the bathroom, they maneuvered their way down the crowded hallway. Thankfully, all of the backstage crew appeared too busy preparing for the show to pay them much notice. When he pulled Monica to the side to avoid the cart full of prizes—pinching her arm as they spotted her name—he stumbled through the unlocked door to one of the dressing rooms. Unoccupied. With a television feed of the stage set up in a corner and a full table of snacks.
Jackpot.
Bucky checked the door, but there was no name, just a silver star. Could someone have cancelled on them? He didn't know, didn't care. Better to ask forgiveness than permission. Also, he hadn't had time for lunch.
Monica, who at fifteen had no moral qualms when there was a buffet on offer, had already made herself at home. Bucky eased the door until it was almost shut, the sliver of space all the excuse he needed—"Sorry, sorry, it was open, we didn't realize!"—in case someone caught them out. He fixed Monica with his sternest stare seconds before she dunked a chip in the dip.
"Do not," he instructed in his best teacher voice, "tell your moms about this."
"I'm not even telling Kamala and Karli about this. Free Flaming Hot Cheetos? Come on!"
Bucky had to laugh—teenage priorities. More impressed by the truly epic selection of deli meats, fancy breads, and local artisanal cheeses, he considered his options as he made for the coffee bar on the far side of the table. With a host of flavored syrups and milk substitutes that would put Starbucks to shame, he was beginning to wonder just who they'd been expecting at a student essay award ceremony. The President? That gave Bucky a moment's pause until he realized there would be way more security.
Once Monica settled into one of the ultra-plush chairs with a frothy beverage and a plate of cookies—he would have worried about spoiling her appetite for the Russian Tea Room later if he wasn't fully aware of teen girls' sugar tolerance levels—Bucky did a small tour of the photos on the walls. Despite being one of the newer venues at the Carnegie Hall complex, the Zankel had hosted some of the most famous jazz and classical musicians of all time. Small bronze plaques helped Bucky identify the ones he didn't recognize. Proving why she was his favorite student, Monica abandoned her cookies to join him, Google at the ready to fill in any of their knowledge gaps.
Applause from the TV warned them that the ceremony was about to start. With an intro, 40 recipients to award, and a keynote speech, Bucky figured they had at least an hour before final preparations, so he turned to Monica with a lopsided smile. "Sandwiches?"
She giggled. "Read my mind."
Fifteen minutes later and four bites into one of the top-ten things he'd ever put in his mouth—yes, including that time he'd blown one of the New York Islanders in the Toolbox VIP area on Halloween—Bucky felt a disturbance in the Force. A hush fell over the backstage hall beyond the door, which had continued to bustle even with the show in full swing. He just had time to wipe a hand across his lips and slosh down some water when someone he presumed to be the stage manager swung through the door, freezing mid-sentence when she spotted them.
Bucky and Monica gave her their best long-lashed, doe-in-headlights looks. A dozen ready explanations charged up his throat until the presumed guest of honor stepped into view, and Bucky...
Bucky considered it a 50-50 chance he might actually lose consciousness because standing there, in the fleshiest flesh that ever fleshed, was Captain fucking America. In uniform, sans cowl. A genuine artifact. A time traveler. And possibly the most gorgeous human being Bucky had ever seen. Like 100-watt radiance that drew you in, moth to inner flame.
Well, that explained the artisanal cheeses.
"This was all me," Bucky hastened to explain as Monica crushed the circulation out of his arm in—he imagined—an effort not to squeal. "The green room was just stifling, and the door was open, and there was so much traffic on the way here, no time for lunch, and... we did not mean to intrude. We'll be going now."
"Don't leave on my account," Captain America said, with a smile that could power a Times Square billboard. "Truth be told, wouldn't mind some company." The stage manager stammered something, but clacked her mouth shut when Captain America shot her a commanding glare. "You'll let me know when it's almost time? Or, well, us, I guess." She nodded, then scurried away, wrenching the door shut as Captain America made his way into the room.
Bucky held his breath when Captain America thrust a hand in Bucky's direction. "Steve Rogers."
"It's an honor, sir," Bucky managed to get out before remembering, well, the cringe-factor of his own name. "I'm very sorry to tell you that you've stuck yourself in here with someone whose parents were huge history nerds and made the unfortunate choice to name their son after a friend of yours."
Captain Rogers stilled almost imperceptibly, his shrewd blue eyes scrutinizing Bucky's face. A blink later, the moment passed, and an amiable smile curled his lips. "You're not my first. Hit me."
"Dr. J.B. Barnes," he introduced himself. "Friends call me Bucky."
Captain Rogers chuckled. "Not Jamie?"
"My dad tried, but my mom wouldn't have it. Said I needed to be my own man."
"Wise woman." Bucky didn't think he imagined the way Captain Rogers's eyes lingered on his features. A spike of worry stabbed him deep in the gut—could he see it? Had he already guessed? Had he read Bucky's letter? But then, if he had, surely he'd say something? "And you must be Miss Rambeau, the lady of the hour. I'm here to present your award."
Monica gasped so sharply, Bucky thought she might wind herself. "Are you serious?! That's amazing!"
Bucky kept a solid hold of her arm in case she got any ideas about launching herself at Captain Rogers. He was already being so kind to them, the least they could do was preserve his body autonomy.
"What's amazing is your achievement," Captain Rogers complimented. "You really captured the humanity of the moment. In your essay, I mean. So many writers forget to think of the people who lived the history they write about as people."
"You read my essay?" Monica gaped.
"Of course he did, Mon," Bucky intervened. "Why else would Captain Rogers have agreed to give out your award?" He didn't miss the pained expression that momentarily flickered across the Captain's face.
"It's Steve, please." He pointed to Monica's sandwich. "Is that pastrami on rye?"
Monica, as proud of her culinary skills as her academic achievements, replied, "It's actually more of a spiced-up Ruben, hold the kraut." And because she was the daughter of two fearless badasses, she added, "But I don't know if you're ready for my secret ingredient."
"I know fighting words when I hear 'em." Steve laughed. "Secret ingredient, huh? Sign me up." But his smile dimmed a second later, a faint blush that Bucky didn't find endearing at all—oh, no, I plead the fifth, You Honor—coloring his cheeks and neck. "That is, if you don't mind making me a sandwich. Extra everything, please."
And because Monica was raised right, she asked, "Do you want one too, Dr. Barnes?"
"Maybe just bang some of that secret ingredient on this one." Bucky peeled the top layer of bread off his barely eaten sandwich.
"I see what you're doing," Monica tisked, thinking a moment before reaching for a bowl of neon-pink... crumbs? "But I'm gonna give in because I like you." She proceeded to sprinkle the garish condiment across his beautiful, beautiful sandwich. "And I need a guinea pig."
"Oh, fantastic," Bucky deadpanned, much to everyone else's amusement. "What the hell is this, may I ask?"
"Need-to-know, Barnes. You heard the lady," Steve reminded him.
Bucky didn't know what shocked him more, the mischievous twinkle in Steve's eye or the fact that he had jokes. Oh, Bucky was going to enjoy this.
"You realize she's just testing this out on me because she's afraid someone from the '40s can't deal with a bell pepper?"
Steve let out a grunt of indignation, then threw back his head and laughed. This was turning into the greatest day of Bucky's life: he just made a living legend cackle.
Once he'd recovered, Steve cleared his throat and said to Monica, "You're not wrong. I'm still learning about spice. But I've survived Mama Wilson's gumbo, so I think I'll be all right."
Monica's eyes bugged out. "He's from Louisiana, right? That must be delicious." She glanced down at her sandwich with an overachiever's sense of self-critique. "Well, this probably won't be much in comparison, but I hope you like it."
"Are you kidding?" Steve reassured her, and Bucky had known he would be kind, but seeing how sweet he was with Monica just took him to a whole other level of esteem. And they say never meet your heroes. "I can't wait." Steve two-handed his sandwich and aimed it in Bucky's direction. "Bottoms up?"
Bucky couldn't help but giggle when they clinked sandwiches. "Chin-chin and all that." He mirrored Steve's shit-eating grin as they both took the biggest bites imaginable.
And oh, God, his everything was happy. Bucky neared sensory overload as he watched Steve's reaction to the magnificence in both their mouths, which did not disappoint, his eyes rolling back in his head and a purr-like sound escaping as he chewed. Bucky tore his gaze away from that incredible sight, his thoughts speeding down inappropriate paths for an outing with one of his students. Imagining Captain Rambeau's reaction helped.
"What is this magic?" he asked Monica, whose arched eyebrow let him know she hadn't missed a trick. She shook her head, waiting on Steve's review.
Sandwich already devoured, Steve stared at the last sliver with something like melancholy.
"The small marvels of the modern world," he murmured, then grinned at Monica as if she'd hung the moon. "Okay, come on, 'fess up. What's in here?"
Later, Bucky would realize Monica looked prouder in this moment than she did on stage, receiving her award.
"It's Cheeto dust." She produced the bag of Flaming Hot Cheetos from behind her back. "It's great on everything: burgers, hot dogs, mac and cheese... that chicken from the Moroccan place on Washington Ave."
"Chermoulah," Bucky whispered in awe.
"Where can you get these?" Steve nabbed the bag from Monica, took out his phone, and snapped a picture. Bucky knew he shouldn't be surprised that Steve had mastered the basics of modern technology, but the action was just so... mundane that it kind of startled him. Which he proceeded to hate himself for.
Take the lesson, Barnes. He's a man, not a relic.
"Like, at any bodega in the city," Monica explained matter-of-factly, proving once and for all that she was way more together than Bucky ever would be.
Steve fished out a Cheeto and popped it in his mouth, considering. "Is it weird that I like it better on the sandwich?"
"Nah." Monica shrugged. "You're just, you know. An adult."
That high-voltage smile returned, charging every single one of Bucky's batteries. His very own renewable energy source.
"Oh, is that what it is?" Steve chuckled as he scoped out the deli meats and cheeses. "Can you show me how to make one? Clint is going to lose his mind."
"Of course!" And it was worth it—the traffic, the nagging, the subway, the slog—just to see Monica bloom in the light of Steve's attention. He'd given her a much bigger gift than just presenting her a piece of paper—he'd given her his time.
It took everything in Bucky not to choke up. As ever, he sought refuge in practicality.
"There's fancy coffee, too, Steve." And he didn't even stutter on the name. "Can I get you one?"
That smirk was going to be the death of him. Bucky would remember it for the rest of his days.
"Well, if it's fancy, sure," Steve teased.
Snark and jokes. Bucky was a goner.
The knock at the door came way too soon, while Steve was in the middle of asking Monica about her college plans—Bucky didn't miss how he avoided talking about himself—and sampling another of her culinary inventions, cupcake icing between two cookies. Bucky felt a small thrill at Steve's visible disappointment; he'd been enjoying himself. With them. The three of them spared a second to acknowledge their regret, then turned to business.
Steve asked for a bathroom to go brush his teeth—Monica, still fifteen, mouthed 'he brushes his teeth' to Bucky as the stage manager offered to escort him. Steve left with a wink and a 'see you out there'. They counted out ten beats under their breath before briefly losing their shit. They had to get ready too, and Bucky pointed out that they should probably let Steve have his dressing room.
With the green room blessedly empty, they polished and primped, and then it was time. Bucky would never forget the roar of the crowd when Steve walked out, or how patiently he posed for pictures with everyone—Bucky, Monica, friends, family, and other winners included. How Steve paused the whole picture ordeal to speak with Captain Rambeau and Major Danvers and to hug each of the girls. Bucky waited patiently at the side of the stage, wishing he could have his own private moment, make his pitch, or just thank him for being so sweet to Monica.
But maybe Steve would actually get to read his letter someday. Maybe.
He settled for a quick wave as he herded the girls down into the aisle, somehow able to walk away from the object of his childhood obsession and fascination, this small piece of his own history, still unsolved.
End of Chapter 1