Work Text:
Dear Bucky,
I hope you had a wonderful summer! Your grandpa and I can't wait for
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Bucky dropped his pen, crumpled up his paper, and threw it into the nearest trash can.
He sighed and started over.
---
Dear Bucky,
It's been so long since we've seen you! Your mother said
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Nope. He threw that one away, too.
This assignment was stupid, even for a creative writing course. 'Write a letter to yourself, from someone else's point of view.' Uuugh. And it had to be handwritten too, in pen, no erasing. Professor Monroe was walking up and down the rows of desks keeping track of everyone, and she wouldn't even let them recopy their work. Not that he planned to try. It was only the second week of class, but he already knew better than to break any of her rules. She said she wanted it 'warts and all', so that was what she was going to get.
The whole letter thing was horribly old fashioned, and since his grandmother was the oldest person he could think of, that's where Bucky had started. But he'd never gotten a letter from Grandma before, he had no idea what the hell she would say, and although he loved her and all, he didn't especially want a letter from her. He didn't want a letter from anybody.
A flash of movement caught his eye, and he automatically looked over at Steve, two seats ahead of him and three seats to the right, leaning down to carefully drop a half written page into the trash.
Okay, maybe there was one person.
Steve had never written him a letter before either, but they used to write notes to each other, all through Government class. Their teacher took three weeks to cover the material of one episode of Schoolhouse Rock, so they'd had plenty of time to scribble silly jokes to each other.
Sometimes Steve had drawn quick little cartoons for him, too. A bouncing bunny, with "I'm HOPPY to see you today!" written across the top. A puppy with "It's a DOG GONE lovely day!" written along the side.
They were ridiculous.
Bucky still had all of them, in a shoebox under his bed. He never pulled them out and looked at them, though. Just thinking about it sent a pang of longing through his chest, and that was bad enough.
He wondered what was on that sheet of paper Steve had thrown away. He wondered what he wished it said.
Before he could talk himself out of it, he started writing again.
---
Dear Bucky,
I miss you.
I see you every day, and I wave at you, and you wave back, and we smile, and I miss you.
I know it's not your fault, and you would have visited me if you could. That's what the smile means, right? It means that you still want to be friends? Even though we're not in high school anymore, and everything changed, and you never called?
I get it. I never called either.
I wish
Remember how
We used to stay on the phone half the night, whispering so we wouldn't get caught, laughing as quietly as we could, talking about anything and everything. It ended too fast soon. I didn't get to tell you There were things We both left too much unsaid.
It's ironic, I guess, that my heart got in the way.
You were probably pretty scared that night. You could probably see the ambulance from your window. I wouldn't have wanted you to watch them load me in on a stretcher, but I know how you are (or at least, I used to) and I know you probably did. You probably cried and couldn't sleep and
I'm okay now. Maybe I should have led with that, but you've already seen for yourself.
That's what the smile means, right? That you're glad I'm doing better?
I am doing better, in a lot of ways. The surgery went great, and my heart is just fine now. Well, mostly fine. You've seen me on the stairs, going all the way up to the next floor without resting, even with a stack of books in my arms. You always wanted to carry them for me, back when
Missing you isn't better, though. Missing you is awful. Seeing you every day only makes it worse.
I told you once that I love spending time with you. We were watching a movie together, and I laughed when I said it, and you laughed right back and said, "Me too."
It was the closest either of us ever got to saying how we really felt.
That's what the smile means, right? That we both still feel the same way?
That we should spend time together again? Because we both love it?
That we could make this work if we could just find a way to really talk. That I adore you, and you adore me too. That we owe it to each other to try.
---
A guy two rows over scooted his chair back loudly and dashed for the door, startling Bucky out of his writing. Shit, it was nearly time to go.
Bucky wasn't done, he hadn't even worked up the courage to say what he really wanted to say, but if the letter was supposed to be from Steve, there was one more thing it absolutely needed. He scribbled down a quick drawing of a cupcake. It ended up looking more like a lumpy rain cloud, but he didn't have the time or the skill to fix it, so he left it alone and wrote, "It'd be so SWEET to hear from you again!"
With less than a minute left, he signed the letter, "Love, Steve."
Oh jesus, he should have said "Sincerely, Steve," or "Your friend, Steve." He shouldn't have written the thing at all, it was too presumptuous, too hopeful, too open, but Professor Monroe was watching, raising an eyebrow at him, and he knew she wouldn't let him get away with throwing it in the trash.
Also, getting a zero on the assignment would probably be bad.
He handed in the paper and hurried out so he wouldn't have to watch her read any of it.
Steve was nowhere to be seen.
**********
Bucky did his best to put the whole thing out of his mind, which wasn't all that easy, especially when he saw Steve in the halls the next day, and they both did the smile and wave thing, and he thought, It means I'm sorry, it means I should have called, it means I still love you. What does yours mean?
Yeah, he didn't actually put it out of his mind at all, but he wasn't brave enough to do anything about it, either, so the results were the same. A whole lot of nothing.
Creative Writing class was on Thursday. After Bucky found his seat, he rearranged his pens and pencils along the desk three times, stealing glances at Steve and worrying over what to say to him. He had to say something, he couldn't do this anymore, and his resolve only grew as Professor Monroe started class by pulling out a sheaf of papers and saying, "Your letters from Tuesday."
She tapped the stack in her hand. "Overall, you did very well. I believe that by the time you finished, most of you had come to understand the point of the exercise, and could see the power that comes from letting the words flow, unfiltered, with no backspace key to blunt the emotion behind them. One letter in particular demonstrated this very well."
Oh no, Bucky thought as she perched on her stool and held up one of the letters, please don't let it be mine.
Surely she would ask first, she'd said so in the syllabus, and she wouldn't deliberately set out to embarrass anyone, oh god he hoped she wouldn't.
Everyone was sitting up straighter now, and Steve had both hands locked around the edge of his desk, but he clenched his jaw and nodded at the professor.
Her voice was strong and clear as she started to read.
---
Dear Steve,
I hope you're feeling better.
I didn't get to visit you in the hospital, and it seemed like it was too late by the time I saw you again, so I never got to say it. But I hope that you are. Feeling better. I do care how you feel.
I was so fucking scared that night. We're not supposed to admit that kind of thing, I guess. We're supposed to be strong, now that we're older. Manly and stoic.
I was terrified.
I know you couldn't tell me about it yourself, what with being so sick and all, but I wish you could have. Hearing about it from someone else made everything worse. I wish you had called me. You were my best friend, I should have heard about the surgery from you, not from your mom, through my mom, two days after it was over.
I'm still terrified.
I feel like our friendship might have fallen apart, and whatever else we were building...
We were building something else, weren't we?
All those late night phone calls, and sitting on the couch so our knees would touch, and the way you'd look at me when we laughed together?
You're still the best friend I've ever had. We were so close. And maybe you were afraid to ruin that. Maybe you thought you shouldn't put our friendship at risk by asking for something else.
But if we don't even have that anymore, then what's the point in being careful?
Oh boy, now I'm starting to sound like you. Running into trouble, trying to prove something to myself. But I guess I got us into almost as many messes as you did. You always had my back, and I always had yours.
I want to have that again. I want to have you again. I want you to be part of my life, in whatever way I can get.
Though honestly, I'd rather it be in a way that has a lot of kisses.
How's that for running into trouble?
We caught each other looking too many times to deny it's what we want. Soft sweet kisses, long sloppy kisses, so many kisses we've both wanted to share.
Maybe if we had, we wouldn't be where we are now, acting like polite strangers while we hold each other's hearts in our hands.
Not literally, though.
Is it too soon to make heart surgery jokes? I have a feeling you've been saving up a bunch them for when you come back me.
Please come back to me. It isn't too late, not yet. I'll see you soon, and maybe we can finally give the kissing thing a try.
With love,
Your Bucky
---
For a long moment, the whole world went still. The air in Bucky's lungs, the blood in his veins, everyone and everything around him, all of it froze into crystalline form, sharp and painful and perfect.
Then a chair scraped, and Bucky automatically looked over at Steve, who had launched himself out of his seat and was already halfway to the door.
Oh god, oh god, oh god.
Bucky bolted after him, only slowing when a paper came suddenly into view, right at eye level, just a few feet away.
He skidded to a halt.
It was his letter.
Professor Monroe smiled as she held it out, and said, "You might want this. Try not to edit so much next time."
"Yes, thanks, oh fuck thank you," he babbled, grabbing the letter and racing for the door.
Some other class must have just let out, there were people milling everywhere, but finally Bucky spotted him. "Steve! Steve wait!"
Steve didn't stop, but he slowed down enough for Bucky to catch up with him.
"Steve, I--"
"Don't. I don't need your pity. I know I shouldn't have done all that, and you don't owe me anything, so please don't--"
"Here." Bucky shoved the letter at Steve, which finally got him to stop and meet his eyes.
There were harsh lines between his eyebrows, and his lips were pulled down tight, like maybe he was trying to keep them from quivering, and god Bucky wanted to hug him, just as soon as he could convince him it wasn't out of pity. He tapped the page and nodded for Steve to go ahead and read it.
Steve looked it over. "This is... Oh." His shoulders slowly came down as he read, and it was hard to tell from this angle, but there might have been a smile hiding at the corner of his mouth as he traced a fingertip over the last few lines.
When he finished, he tilted his head and turned the paper. "Is that supposed to be a sheep?"
"Uh, no, it's a cupcake. I can't draw as well as you. I can't write as well, either, I guess, 'cause your letter was a lot better than mine." He paused when Steve looked up at him, a wide-eyed hopeful look that finally gave Bucky the nerve to say, "Especially that last part. You were right. About the kisses. That's exactly what I want. What I always wanted. And it's-- you said it's not too late?"
Steve crushed against him in a wonderful, painfully tight hug. "It's not too late. God I'm so sorry I never called--"
"No, it's my fault, you were sick and--"
"I didn't know how to tell you about it over the phone, but by the time I got back--"
"You can tell me about it, or not, or whatever, just..." Bucky gently pushed Steve away so he could see his eyes again. "I swear I'll never do this to you again. I promise I'll talk to you, even if I'm scared. Especially if I'm scared. I'll never be this stupid again."
"Okay. Yeah, me neither." Steve reached out and brushed his fingers over Bucky's jaw, light and hesitant and breathtaking, and he whispered, "Hey Bucky. The smile means you feel the same way, right?"
Bucky leaned their foreheads together. "It means I love you. How's that for running into trouble?"
"That's good." Steve brushed his lips against Bucky's cheek. "That's really good." He pressed a soft sweet kiss to the corner of Bucky's lips. "I love you too."
**********
Dear Professor Monroe,
We don't know if you still use our story as a writing prompt for your classes (yes we did hear about that, our friend Natasha ratted you out), but, like the invitation says, we hope you can come and witness the beginning of the next chapter.
Your assignment helped set us back on a path that has made our lives fuller and richer and so much happier than we could have imagined. Without you, we wouldn't be where we are today, and you have our deepest gratitude.
Sincerely,
Bucky Barnes & Steve Rogers
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Steve drew an adorable sheep at the bottom of the page, and wrote above it, "WOOL you please come to our wedding?"
It was ridiculous.
Bucky loved it.