Work Text:
"Come on. Stop it."
Bucky tried. He really did, biting on his tongue to keep his mouth closed and all that. But it was difficult to resist bursting into a fit of laughter, so he resorted to stupidly grinning instead.
"It's not funny. At all."
"It is funny. Just a little bit."
And it was, really.
A short time ago, while cleaning up the old Stark mansion, Tony found a curious box marked as 'Property of Steven Grant Rogers' in one of Howard's offices. The man took one look at the contents within and promptly delivered it to its rightful owner, fond annoyance dancing all over his expression.
Neither Bucky nor Steve had the time to take a proper look at it at first, knee-deep into their duties as they were, but after several days of uninterrupted work, they finally had a window to take a breather. Of course, the most logical course of action had been to inspect the peculiar box.
And Bucky was thrilled at what they found inside.
"This is precious, Stevie," he said, a smirk still plastered on his face, sorting through the cluster of love letters scattered before him all over the carpet. "And also— entirely in character for you. You've always been such a sap."
"Just stop it," Steve groaned, his hand coming up to cover his eyes. He was grinning, too, awkward and red-faced, small chuckles escaping him every now and then. "It was a long time ago."
"It sure was! This one is from," Bucky, still full of humour and teasing, turned the envelope to look at the date printed on it. He whistled at the number, sobering up a little. "At least eighty years ago. Oh man, we're old old, aren't we?"
Steve hummed, and Bucky promptly decided to read this letter, too. He took the paper out of the envelope, unwrapped it, and held it up to see the text under the light from the lamp.
"'Dear Bucky, I hope that this letter finds you well,'" he started reading, his voice gaining notes of artistic flair, gesturing around with his free hand. Steve lowered his hand, looking up at Bucky's face. "'Forgive me for the ink smudges— I am writing this in a hurry, as I often do. Sometimes there is a lot of things I want to say to you, and my hand simply cannot keep up with the speed of my mind.'"
A warm feeling— vastly different from the heat he'd felt towards any man or woman he took to partying with during the old days, soft and fuzzy and all-encompassing where the heat was blazing and confined— spread through Bucky's body as he reread the words from the paper in his hand. Even back then, all those years ago, restricted by the standards that society had placed on people and with war filling every corner of his mind, Steve found the words to write poems to his name.
The thought made him feel loved and cherished in a way Steve often made him feel as of late. Honoured, even, to be worthy of receiving such odes.
"'—And even if this letter never reaches you, I do hope that one day I will be able to voice all that I feel aloud. Perchance I will have found courage to tell you how I feel by the time I give you this letter.'" Bucky carefully folded the paper and put it back in the envelope. "'Sincerely, Steve.' Well, it certainly found me well."
Steve groaned, shaking his head. He shoved at Bucky's shoulder, making both of them burst into laughter again.
"Don't be like that, Steve," he chastised him. "I think it's amazing, actually. Very romantic of you. Award-worthy, I'd say. Such loyalty and devotion, to still love me almost a century into the future."
"You're killing me, Buck. Stop it. They will make me a gravestone that reads 'Captain America, slain by embarrassment.' Do you want that?"
With one last chuckle, he dropped the envelope back into the box, together with the bunch of letters he'd already read, and picked up another one instead— the cleanest of them all, unmarked with liquid stains or dirt smudges, with a proper stamp and a printed address on it. Curious, he threw a glance towards Steve— who sat across from him and mindlessly sorted through the other pile of envelopes— and then cautiously unfolded the envelope, taking out the letter on the inside.
Bucky frowned at the date written on top of it. A quick glance at the receiver's name confirmed that it was, in fact, meant for him.
"Huh."
"What is it, Bucky?"
"This one's from '45."
"Ah. I think I remember the one." Steve winced, rubbing at the back of his neck. "It was before— before the final mission against the Red Skull guy. I got emotional and… And this happened."
Bucky hummed and quickly skimmed the text. It was significantly longer than the other ones, too, written in smaller handwriting so as to fit the text on the paper. Some words were
"Huh. That's— quite a fit of commitment."
Bucky didn't go for the theatrical narrating this time, opting for reading the letter quietly instead, too conscious of the significance and weight the words would undoubtedly possess.
"'Dear Bucky, truthfully speaking, I have not an idea of what to write in this letter,'" were the words written at the beginning. And despite that, Steve still managed to find the words to fill the paper with.
'It's quiet today— the kind of silence you said used to unnerve you. The quiet before a storm, brought by soldiers getting ready for their next mission. We're heading off in only a few hours, and I do not know if I'll return home afterwards…'
Bucky glanced Steve's way. He propped his chin on a fist, elbow placed against his leg, posture rigid, and was watching Bucky with a focused intent, so attentive to all the changes in his expressions. Bucky squirmed and licked his lower lip.
'… Peggy says it's not healthy, but I cannot stop bringing you up in the most mundane of conversations, and sometimes I still think of you in the context of my missions, wishing to, perchance, avenge you and your name. Maybe once this is over, I will be able to move on. You always wished the best for me, after all…'
"I still do," Bucky found himself saying.
"What?"
"You said here that I've 'always wished the best for you.'" Bucky gestured at the letter. "And I still do. I don't think— I don't want you to push your happiness away if you ever lose me."
"Bucky?"
"Could you promise me that? That you would find something to live for, even when I'm gone— for real, this time?"
Steve stared at him, lips pressed tight together in a frown, mulling over the words. Bucky noticed that his fingers reached for the familiar dog tags, probably picked out of the same box. Finally, the man looked right into his eyes, and told him, almost like a declaration, "Okay. Promise."
Bucky nodded, a tentative smile on his lips. He turned his attention back to the letter.
'I've never found the courage to tell you of it, and now it is too late— so I will write of it instead. I love you. More than I ought to, I think of you and what we could have had if I wasn't such a coward. I love the memory of you and all the time we spent at each other's side…'
'…Perhaps if there is an afterlife, I hope that we will meet again. I hope that you will have me. I hope I'll get the chance to say all of what I've written to your face. I hope that you will accept me and my heart…'
'…Sincerely, forever yours, Stevie.'
Even after he finished reading, Bucky couldn't stop staring at the words presented to him. The warmth that blossomed in his chest now bloomed into an overwhelming inferno, setting every nerve in his body on fire. He bounced his leg, powerless to contain the energy blazing through him.
Bucky raised his gaze, looking, searching for the reflections in Steve's expression. And he could see it: the fierce affection burning in Steve's eyes just as fiercely as it did in his own chest, a mirror to the words written in ink and hidden away in an old box.
Bucky hummed, his hand reaching out to grab at Steve's collar, dragging him towards himself, uncaring of the mess they would make of the scattered envelopes. He set aside the letter in his hand, raising it to trace a finger on the other man's chin instead.
"Come here and kiss me, Brooklyn baby," he huffed.
And Steve did, just as fiercely as Bucky hoped he would, their lips colliding and teeth clashing against each other with the strength of it. Bucky laughed, the hand on Steve's chin dropping to prop him on the floor as Steve grabbed the back of his neck, yanking Bucky towards himself.
"I think you've got just the right moment to tell me everything you wanted," Bucky whispered, out of breath. "Perfect moment for all the dirty thoughts to come out, hmm?"
"Hooray me." Steve chuckled.
Everything will be okay.