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It started with a picture in an old photo album of his grandfather's- yellowed with age and nearly indistinct in places- but one set of eyes stood out clearly. They were piercing, like the man that owned them could see directly into your soul, even from a photograph.
John asked about him.
“Oh, Bucky Barnes,” his grandfather said, fondness coloring his tone, and told the story of the sharp-eyed man from Brooklyn who was as sarcastic as he was compassionate. “A true hero,” his grandfather ended the story with a pat on John's shoulder. “Saved a lot of lives even before he joined the Howling Commandos.”
And that was how John learned his World War II history- not through textbooks but through stories from his grandfather, from school trips, from the vacation to the Smithsonian that he'd begged his family to take, who only caved when his older brother said he wanted to go as well, throwing John a conspiratorial wink.
The Smithsonian was a revelation. There was James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes in sharp relief, standing next to Captain America. It started a dream in John- not to be Bucky, but to be good enough to stand next to him.
Which obviously meant that John had to be Captain America.
He found a best friend in Lemar- a good man, a righteous man, a fair man. Lemar kept him grounded. Lemar kept him honest.
In high school, he met Olivia, made a fool of himself, and fell in love. He admired her- her strength, her integrity, her character. She made him want to be a better man; one good enough to stand next to her.
It snowballed from there: high school graduation, acceptance into West Point, his first deployment.
Marriage.
He joked with his team, corrected stances, and did his best to bring everybody back alive. It felt good. It felt right.
Then he became Captain America.
A few short weeks later, he was meeting the Bucky Barnes, and it turned into a disaster.
He tried to not let it bother him. Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe Bucky misunderstood.
Maybe Bucky had every right to hate the man that was trying to usurp his best friend's place before they'd even met.
It all came tumbling down. Blood on the shield, expulsion from the military, a house that didn't feel like home anymore.
Divorce.
Years later, he saw Bucky again, and couldn't keep the excitement out of his voice. The man was ruthlessly competent, and there was something about it that made a heat curl low in John’s belly. Older, though maybe not wiser, John recognized it now: desire.
It made him trip and stumble over his words. Issue challenges instead of invitations. He'd been a little boy pulling the pigtails of the girl he likes, except he's a grown man and Bucky already hated him.
He tried avoidance instead. At least if he wasn't in Bucky’s presence, he couldn't make an ass of himself. If he couldn't make an ass of himself, then maybe Bucky would hate him a little less.
John even went as far as storing all of his old Bucky memorabilia in the closet. Except the picture. That one he reasoned out to himself, tucking it into the corner of the mirror frame in his bedroom, and calling it a memory of his grandfather.
Besides, it wasn't like Bucky would ever see it there.