Work Text:
Shining Postcards
A highschool aged John Walker takes a visit to the Smithsonian Institution to see the special exhibit on Captain America and the Howling Commandos.
Day 1: John has a crush
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For the entire school year, John’s guiding light through seemingly endless assessments and exhausting training had been the class field trip to the Smithsonian Institution. Well, more specifically, the special exhibit on Captain America and the Howling Commandos.
Ever since he was a kid, John’s always had a fascination with the group. He hesitated to call it an obsession. The connotations of the word weren’t pretty but, if he was honest with himself, it wasn’t far off.
While his classmates outgrew kitschy comic books, barely poseable action figures, and retro Saturday morning cartoons, John’s interest only deepened as time grew on. Somewhere along the line, his love for scrappy heroes turned into a real love of the history behind them, granting him some dignity among his peers.
Now, after hours wandering and peering into glass cases filled with artifacts, John still walks a few paces ahead of his friends towards the gift shop, eyes still bright with his boyish wonder as when they started. Behind him, Olivia and Lemar share amused glances.
As he steps through the doorway, the faint hum of air conditioning mingles with the scent of new paper and plastic packaging. The shelves are packed with overpriced memorabilia. Bold books, wide-spanning posters, shiny trinkets you're bound to lose in a week, and a number of other things John can’t take in at once due to their sheer quantity.
It feels more like a tangible, glittering piece of an action-packed world that made him believe in hope than another museum gift shop.
“John? Can you hurry up? Mrs. Dy is gonna kill us if we are late.” Olivia grumbles, already impatient despite just entering. She shudders at the memory of the trio getting scolded by Mrs. Dy in front of their whole class earlier because John spent too much time lurking around the section talking about a particular member of the Howling Commandos.
“You know he’s going to take ages, Olivia. Don’t even try to rush the man, or he might go slower out of spite.” Lemar grins from behind her, completely cool and unfazed. She shoots him a sharp look, one that says not helping without her needing to move her mouth.
“You're both dicks.” John mutters, not granting them a single gratifying look, and instead shoving hands into his pockets like the angsty teen he is.
The group drift towards the tall rack of museum postcards, each shiny and plastered with photos of different displayed pieces. John stops in his tracks and stares at them, examining them closely with a knit brow and squinted eyes.
Olivia and Lemar glance at each other. She presses her lips into a thin, irritated line. Lemar lets out an amused huff, shaking his head softly.
She groans, tossing her head back and crossing her arms. “You already know which one you want, so just grab it and let’s go.”
John turns to her, giving her a puzzled look.
“You're gonna get one of Sergeant Barnes.” She supplies in a matter-of-fact manner, lifting her eyebrows so high they almost touch her hairline. “Or maybe two, knowing you.”
John splutters, face rapidly losing all its color.
“You thought we didn’t know about your weird fixation turned crush on a dead war hero?” Olivia questions, almost in disbelief.
“It’s not a crush.” John defends thinly through gritted teeth. “And I’m not going to get one of Bucky.”
“Wow, first name basis with the sarge’, eh?” Lemar teases, smile stretching somehow even wider. He bumps his shoulder against John’s, with his being noticeably tenser. “Didn’t know you two were close like that.”
John gruffs, defeated. He turns back on his heel to the endless rack, this time with a more hesitancy in his scouting and annoyance at being read perfectly.
He extends a hand to pluck out a glossy postcard of Captain America, clearly the most popular item, telling by how little stock there is left. As he picks it up, his eyes land on the postcard beside it for a second.
A simple photograph of Bucky Barnes, smiling reluctantly at something left unseen. His hair is ruffled, with flecks of dirt littering his cheeks and the edges of an already battered uniform. In the corner, a neat white serif font details the date of the photo beside his name. 1943. John’s mind instantly recognizes the date without much pause or effort, it was the year the 107th Infantry Regiment was saved from a HYDRA facility in Austria.
“Alright, let’s pay.” John mumbles, lingering embarrassment still clinging to his tone.
“Really? That’s it?” Lemar hums.
“That’s it.” John wiggles the postcard in between his fingers. “Olivia said not to spend too much time dawdling, right?”
Olivia simply scoffs, already pulling John and Lemar to the check out area with hurried steps.
They take their place at the tail end of the queue. In front, John stands stiffly as an awkward portrait of defiance. Behind him, Lemar and Olivia exchange disbelieving looks, the kind only reserved for someone they can’t decide is endearing or hopeless.
“Save it.” John says without turning around to face them, already dragging his hand over his face. “I can hear you two thinking.”
“Thinking what?” Olivia asks, adopting Lemar’s teasing tone.
He turns to them, eyebrows tense. “Thinking I’m going to regret not getting one of Bucky.”
“Hey, we never said anything.” Lemar replies smoothly, feigning ignorance. “You might be projecting your own issues onto us.”
Olivia nods solemnly, mock-serious.
John throws up his hands exasperatedly. He’s never going to win with them.
As irritation dulls, replaced by reluctant quiet, he sighs. He takes a look at the postcard resting in his palm before wrinkling his nose, not at the shiny image but at himself. He didn’t know an inanimate object could be so taunting until now.
He looks back up, meeting Olivia’s gaze as she quirks a daring eyebrow.
“Stay here.” John says sheepishly after too many seconds lingering in their scrutinizing stare.
Before the other two can respond and barrage him with snarking or snickering, he bolts to the postcard rack. He can feel their gaze diligently track his back as he arrives.
He hesitates for a heartbeat, fully aware of the looming wave of embarrassment and inevitable teasing he’ll face for what he’s going to do. But he does it anyway.
In a swift but guilty movement, he slides the Captain America post card back in its original slot and, without needing to search through the sea of images, pulls out the one of Sergeant Barnes he spotted earlier.
The effect is immediate. Heat floods his face and ears, creeping from a soft shade of pink to vivid vermilion in a breath. It’s dramatic, undeniable, and far too telling for his own comfort or sanity.
At a much slower pace, John rejoins the group in line. His steps are slower, hesitant, and a far cry from the bold stride he had earlier. He doesn’t lift his hand to present his newly claimed trophy. Much the opposite in fact, as he keeps it half-tucked behind his leg, as though he’s almost ashamed of it.
Lemar notices him and the flush of his cheeks instantly. His cheeky grin hasn’t left since they've entered. “What happened to your favorite boy in blue spandex?”
John scoffs, almost inaudibly if the two weren’t listening to intently. “One, his costume is made out of a carbon polymer and paratrooper cloth combination if you paid attention to the exhibit.” He hesitates, eyes flickering down to the floor, then to the postcard in between his fingers, and at last back at them. “I switched it. With something else.”
Lemar tilts his head, catching a brief glimpse of what John’s holding. A laugh escapes him. “Knew you would come back to your senses.” He says, clasping a proud hand onto John’s shoulders.
“Shut up.” John punches Lemar’s shoulder with a weak punch using his free hand, which only causes more giddy laughter to spill from Lemar.
“If you left without Sergeant Barnes memorabilia, I’d have to call a doctor.” Olivia chimes in, much to John’s chagrin. “Make sure you weren’t some alien doppelgänger or something.”
John rolls his eyes, but he can’t muster a retort this time. Because she’s right. Completely, humiliatingly right, and he had the proof to back her statements.
He looks down at the postcard, flipping it right side up in between his fingers. The printed image of Sergeant James Barnes stares right back at him in black and white.
John can’t deny it. Not them, and of course not to himself.
He has a stupid, embarrassing crush on a man who’s been dead for nearly a century.