CHILDHOOD IN BROOKLYN

Night by night, you grew up with the tale of a princess who had slept for a century, freshly told by your mother on your bedside.

And every single time, as your mother takes her place beside you, you would be asked the same question: "Are you certain you don't want a different story?"

To which you'd laugh and say, "Absolutely certain."

And so you'd listen to the same story every night willingly until you fell asleep, silently hoping with your fingers crossed under your blanket that you would awake and a hundred years have passed and true love has been awaiting you.

But it's always not to be, for you would find yourself waking up every morning with a refreshed yawn.

But that's alright, you'd say to console your fairytale-starved self. After all, there was always the very next night.

—

AFTER

Respect is earned, that much is true.

And Sergeant James Barnes had a lot for his superiors, but more so for the daughter of his general. Who, as always, would be just over his shoulder; never far away but never close, either.

In bars where he and his fellow comrades gather, he'd look over his shoulder to the left and find . . . you. In diners where he'd go to order some light snacks, he'd look over to the jukebox and spot you dancing along.

And time and time again, on the times you'd catch him staring, you would do a subtle salute his way with a smile he'd gotten used to, having seen it countless times before. But he'd never get tired of it, as you would never get tired of seeing his.

Since long before he enlisted in the army, you've found solace in a friend.

It was a lovely evening, you could recall: The lights in the diner were on but it was half-deserted both inside and out. You could see a few customers inside, but they all seemed somber. Only two cars could be seen in the open parking lot space in front of the diner, and the empty spaces worked in your advantage both for the chance to rehearse your dancing and to meet one person you'd never had thought would be significant.

The night was lovely if you were to exclude the humiliation part.

You had only turned eighteen that year of 1936, and alone time was, as you had expected, rewarding.

Well, mostly because of losing the role of Cinderella to another dancer. So there you were, aggressively attempting to be graceful as if doing so would convince it to change.

Your pointe shoes were getting dirty and barely holding on, yet you kept going, spinning, spinning, spinning—

A hand caught you by your wrist just as you were about to topple over. Your head still spinning from the overexertion, your hand lingered longer than you had intended, having miscalculated the consequences.

But it didn't matter, because that was the start of everything else that followed — that one left hand that almost missed you, because he, as he had explained, was right-handed.

And right there, unsure of what to do but familiar with the gesture of those in uniform before your father and out of pure impulse, you raised your hand to your temple, forming a formal salute.

"I mean to say — er — thank you, sir."

"The pleasure's all mine. But do you really believe I'm old enough to be a 'sir' deserving of a salute?"

"Oh, no! I only meant that to, uh, you know, for respect," you hurriedly said, panicked. "Which I have. For you. Like I would and do for everybody else."

"I was only kidding, lighten up," he said with a laugh as to alleviate the awkwardness in the open space of the lot. "Anyway," he started, extending his hand to offer a shake, "friends call me—"

"Bucky," you replied just as you shook his hand, having heard of him for a long while.

His face lightened up in a grin all too comforting and memorable. He shakes your hand one more time. "[Y/N]," he quipped.

"My, I didn't know you knew my name."

He only shrugged. "I didn't know you knew mine."

"Yeah, well, you're kind of famous here."

He gestured at you with a flourish of his fingers for effect. "And so are you, Miss Ballerina. It's understandable, really. You're quite the spinner, aren't you?"

"I prefer the word 'dancer,' sir."

"Alright, dancer, would you like a walk home?"

And thus began what would lead to one of the reasons the world will be given the chance to come back.

But that's another story.

You're reading the love letters you've received, looking and waiting to spot one particular name, but all senders were from names you could only recognize but did not care for.

"Dear [Y/N]," each one of them would say, the following words undeniably moving.

Yet none of the envelopes you've received matter, not even when the wax seal one used was certainly of impeccable taste and design, nor when the handwriting delivered the words so tastefully.

They all seemed dull as soon as your eyes made it to the end when you'd find some other name was scrawled under 'yours truly' or 'sincerely.'

It's beautiful, but it's not from Bucky.

You hated the way you had started subconsciously doing it, but you let it happen anyway. You'd never admit to anyone that your heart did a 360 upon seeing the name James only to find it was from some other James. There was one that caught your attention, though:

The Only Relevant Admirer,

The Secret One

"I've received a lot of letters, you know," you say to your 'friend' as you walk side by side to the diner in hopes of hearing him say something. " Like, a lot."

"Thank you, Treyna," you say, taking one.

"Thank you, T — Safe to say that I am not surprised," he says with a grin as he flips through the pages even though he already knew what he was gonna get.

The two of you walk into the diner, Bucky holding the door open for you before following.

"I even have a secret admirer, if I may," you add, trying to . . . make him jealous? You don't even know.

The two of you take a seat in a booth beside the window, sitting across from each other. The waitress pops up with a smile, handing you your menus.

"Ooh, does this mystery person stand a chance with the princess?" he teases, not so subtly referring to your childhood tales of Sleeping Beauty.

"Who knows? But not until whoever it is reveals themself, which, I hope, is soon. After all, I have written a little something in response to their attempts to woo me."

Treyna comes back a while later, not holding a notepad like always. It surprised you that you and Bucky no longer fret over it like you did back then, worried that she might not get it right.

But time and time again, she always did. "The usual?"

You sighed. "Probably. This stuck up sergeant here wouldn't bother to try out any of the milkshakes, Trey."

"You know what?" says Bucky, slamming the menu close dramatically before setting it down on the table, mocking your grace. "I'll order one milkshake."

Your eyebrows shot up just a bit.

"And your usual meal?" Treyna asked. She was only older than the two of you by a few years, maybe two or three and yet she seemed older than she was.

"No, just whatever milkshake she's having."

"Really? You sure you're gonna like milkshakes, Sergeant Barnes?"

"I trust your judgment enough, m'lady."

"Alright, we'll just have one [Y/F/F] milkshake each."

"Very well, then," Treyna says, excited, her giddy smile very clear. "Two [Y/F/F] milkshakes for one young couple."

You laughed, eyes desperately apologizing to the sergeant sitting across the table. "Oh, no, we're not—"

Treyna snorts, waving you off. "Oh, but I'm never wrong!"

"Unfortunately, we're only friends," Bucky says with a dismissive gesture of his fingers, watching you carefully.

"Ah, how unfortunate without a doubt," she nods, frowning but still with a light spirit all around her. "Why, it's just that you've been coming here together a lot and I just began assuming you were lovers!"

Well, there's one thing she got wrong, you think to yourself as you smiled forgivingly, laughing to dismiss it.

"Lovers!" you both exclaimed, laughing at the prospect of being such a thing.

What do lovers do? They love, of course. Love each other and show it in the most subtle ways possible like the unmentioned grazing of the fingers, the stolen glances at each other over one's shoulder just to seek for the comfort of the other's company and presence, or maybe even walking shoulder up to shoulder into a diner frequently just like that one senior couple sitting at the other booth at the other end of the diner.

All these things, which, as the two of you pretend not to have done, are what one might call how love is shown.

And Treyna must've caught that.

But the two of you could only laugh, confused at yourselves for covering anything up.

"What stubborn children the two of you are," Treyna jokes, shaking her head. "Anyway, two [Y/F/F] milkshakes coming right up for one young couple of friends." She leaves, and it's as if the diner had been emptied as the silence wafts in between the two of you.

"Funny woman," you remark.

Bucky readjusts his collar that, you pretend not to have noticed, did not need any readjusting or touching up. "Has she gone senile?"

"Oh, don't do her like that," you laugh. "She's just our age."

"I'm only joking. Now, where were we? Ah — Did you write back? Was there a return address?"

"No, I just plan on leaving it here on this very table as they have mentioned having referred to my dancing by the jukebox as a 'pleasant sight'." The said jukebox had already played a couple of songs but as one song finished, the Blues in the Night by Woody Herman came in.

"Your secret admirer wouldn't be wrong."

Treyna only comes back to give you both your glass of water, a suggestive smirk on her face as she leaves. The two of you laugh it off, and you grab your glass of water to cope.

"Is that flattery I sense from you, Sergeant Barnes?" you joke, your smile plenty of mischief just as his; and his laugh is like a symphony. "Are you suggesting I should pay for your lunch today?"

You take a sip of your water, thirsty.

"Are you suggesting you would willingly approve of being my well-endowed sugar mama?"

All of a sudden, you began to regret your decision of drinking water in the presence of this very man. You almost choked on your water, spatting out a bit of it. Bucky dramatically dusted off his uniform.

"Well, you didn't tell me you had another passion for becoming a water fountain," he jested.

"Quit it, soldier."

A couple of minutes go by, but it feels fast nonetheless whenever your company is Bucky. Time flies fast and you had almost forgotten you had ordered milkshakes, hence your surprised expression flat on your face as Treyna sets a tray down to serve the two of you your milkshakes.

As she leaves, she swings the empty tray up with a grin. "Two [Y/F/F] milkshakes for one young couple." The two of you jokingly glared at her. Treyna then rolled her eyes. ". . .Of friends."

When you were sure that Treyna has disappeared from view, you leaned in to the table to whisper to Bucky, "Oh, yeah, she's definitely gone senile."

"Oh, don't do her like that," he says back with a laugh. He then looks around the table for a good three seconds before moving out of his side of the booth chair.

"Where're you off to?"

"Don't mind me, I just need a tissue. I'll be right back," he says, standing up. You don't take a single sip from your own milkshake just yet, excited for him to try it out. You look out of the diner window beside you, watching tourists and locals alike passing by.

Meanwhile, Bucky approaches the bar counter, skimming the place for Treyna, and he beams as he gestures for her to come closer. She obliges and he leans in to whisper as subtly as he could: "You are half correct, and I need your help."

"Keep talking," Treyna encouraged, to which Bucky explained the situation with enthusiasm.

Bucky looked around, making sure no one else would hear. His eyes met a stranger's for half a second. He recognized the man as someone he often saw in the diner: glasses, blonde hair slicked back and a neat necktie tucked into his vest.

Must've been Bucky's hunger, but the stranger seemed fairly unimpressed and was frowning at him, but Bucky ignored this and simply just returned to Treyna. "So, I may or may not have relied a little bit on anonymity and branded myself as a secret admirer."

A subtle plan was brought into life, and Bucky returned triumphant.

"Took you long enough," you say. "Where's the tissue?"

Bucky blinked, visibly confused. "What tissue?"

"The one you said you were gonna get?" you suggest with a laugh. "You got lost in the midst of gossip, huh? Or were you flirting with Treyna?"

"Oh! Right, I totally forgot about that." Bucky's nose wrinkled. "And me? Flirting? Doubtful."

"Right. And sooner or later, you're going to be forgetting about me," you tell him, chuckling to keep it light. Of course, you had never meant it seriously and yet only time would dare to tell that story a little ways down the road. "Or worse, your name."

Bucky wrinkles his nose as he studies the milkshake before him. "That's not worse."

You play with your straw, eyes narrowed. "Is it not?"

"It is not," he shrugs. Bucky then grabbed his own straw and sipped, his eyes widening in a type of exhilaration you could not identify; does he like it or not?

"So?" you ask, suddenly on your toes, hoping he's just as crazy about your favorite milkshake as you are —

"It's—"

"What?" you cut him off, a smile tempting to come up on your face. Each passing second, it gets a little bit harder to keep a straight face, and so you just let yourself grin. He's grinning as well, so that has to be a good sign. "What?"

"It's one of a kind," he beams.

"Would I be wrong if I told you that I thought you're only saying that to not hurt my feelings?"

"You would," Bucky laughs, taking more sips of the milkshake. "God, I've been missing out!"

A couple of more moments of laughing and stories of what had happened while the two of you were apart passed until both of your glasses were empty, and it was time to leave.

You feigned an exaggerated yawn, flashing the envelope at whoever was looking. And, after leaving the booth with Bucky, Treyna swooped right in to subtly slip the envelope into her apron pocket.

She was quick to move; her other hand was holding the tray of the glasses the two of you left on the table along with the check.

Treyna watched as you walked past in front of Bucky, her hands dipping back to her pocket and slipping into the Bucky's hand held out to his back, and as Treyna passed by, she only smiled giddily at you two.

Bucky gave her an approving wink.

You smiled back at Treyna, and Bucky tucked the envelope into his left pocket as swiftly as possible, stepping forward to swing the door open with his right hand for you, triumphant as ever.

➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶

That night, he lay in his bunk, pondering on whatever the envelope could contain. In his hands, he held the envelope itself, half-afraid to rip it open.

He stood up, grabbing the flashlight from under his bed, trying so hard to delay himself from opening the envelope, fearing. . .

What exactly did he fear?

What if she likes the secret admirer but not me? What if she likes neither? What if. . . ?

He shook his head, ignoring his breath that had suddenly gone faster than usual and teared the envelope open.

—————

To whomever I am writing to,

I hope this finds the right person for both of our sakes. To begin, I would like to let you know that I am not sure what to feel about being noticed; but the most I could say is that I am flattered.

Thank you for thinking my dancing is a pleasant sight, as you call it. I truly appreciate it with all my heart.

I also would like to thank you for the flower seeds you had added into the envelope; it was a lovely touch. Oftentimes, I'd find either bouquets or single flowers being handed to me. I do love a challenge. You may rest assured that these flowers will grow for I will be planting them on an old pot I had been meaning to use for some time now.

However, while I do find your words and choices of courting most charming compared to the others that I have received from named suitors and although the idea of exchanging letters with you in the present and telling you stories of the plant's growth, I'm afraid my heart is with another.

While it is unrequited and my friends would advise me into keeping you as another suitor, I can't in good conscience let myself lead you on and falsely promise a future you have in mind. Pray that the love you seek you will discover soon; the one you will love in the near future will most definitely be lucky.

Please make sure to read the other note attached.

Sincerely,

Your Jukebox Dancer

—————

To Bucky's surprise, there was not a single thing in the envelope at all. Not a single note or any other attachment in sight. Had he lost it?

Bucky rummaged through the crevices of his bed: patting the sheets and dusting off the pillows. He crouched down to look under the bed itself before digging his hands into his pockets, thinking it had slept in.

Nothing.

Meanwhile, there you lay in the comfort of your own bed, peaceful until something rustled under your elbows. You bolted up, the note you were supposed to add greeting you, ever the menace.

You gasped.

Of course, unless you're Sergeant Barnes, then you may consider yourself lucky, Bucky.

That meant . . .

He still doesn't know you know it's him. Is it him, really? Or are you just being— no, no.

With a sigh, you just took it as a sign not to talk about it any more.

You heard a knock in your window, causing you to jump. "Bucky?" you whispered, though you doubted he had not heard you if it was really him, and it wasn't; from down below, you spotted someone else, holding a bouquet of roses in his hands, ever a fine gentleman.

The stranger, however, seemed to be nervous despite the facade he was supposed to keep up and it wasn't until he put his glasses on did you recognize him.

Brett Gardener — the man your family wanted you to marry. You hadn't told Bucky anything about it (or literally anyone outside of your family), but the prospect of an arranged marriage was brought up not so long ago.

He stood there, and when he noticed you had spotted him, he waved the bouquet. "Wonderful evening, isn't it? Would you mind — er — if I climbed in?"

"I think I would," you said, disapproving. But out of unwritten courtesy, you let him climb up, the flowers rustling against the window sill.

And from below, just a couple of steps away from where Brett had stood a while ago, Bucky lurked.

It's one thing for you not to love him the way he did, but loving someone else was another. Assumptions and theories drew themselves in his head as he watched you close your window to talk with your suitor.

"I apologize for barging in at a time like this," he says. Well, he did seem genuine.

"You're Brett Gardener, right?"

"Gardner, actually."

"Oh, my mistake. Alright, Brett Gardner, what brings you here at this hour?"

With one last uncertain plea for you to return whatever it was that he felt, Bucky turned away and he threw the bouquet of flowers he'd bought at the last minute on the way home.

That night, he did not know you had conversed with your 'suitor' about how neither of you wanted to get married at all. At least, not to each other.

He loves, too. And he mourns for the love he cannot have just like you. Somehow, the two of you made for one heck of a wrecked couple.

He loved the waitress in the very diner you and Bucky had gone to — Treyna. It would explain how there were times when you'd stop by in the diner, you'd find Brett seated on one of the stools in front of the counter, chatting up your favorite waitress.

"But why are you here?" you asked, relieved that you were on the same page on not being a fan of the plan to marry.

"I'm afraid my mother suggested that I do so," he answered, seemingly flustered. "I was told to give these flowers to you." He held up the bouquet, but you shied it down.

"No, there's no need. Just give it to Treyna, and we'll figure something out to get out of this situation."

"Oh, erm — we're visiting tomorrow and my mother's going to be looking for this. She thinks it would mean that we're . . . getting along."

You opened your mouth to speak only to close it shut again. "I'm sorry, what's your name again? No offense, I'm only really tired."

"None at all taken," he said before taking off his hat. "You may call me Brett, my lady."

"Alright, Brett. Here's what's going to happen. I'll be taking this bouquet and you'll. . ." You pulled three roses from the tie and handed it to him. "And you'll give at least these to Treyna tonight."

"Goodness me, are you sure?"

"I'm very sure, husband-I-don't-want-to-marry."

Brett chuckled, and he seemed a lot more relieved and comfortable than when you first met him. "I owe you a great deal, wife-I-don't-want-to-marry."

And he left, three roses in hand to deliver to his love and you made sure to put the flowers in a vase to keep his and your secret safe.

The following day, you confirmed Brett's forecast of his mother's ideas of a blossoming romance. She'd pointed at the vase of flowers she'd ordered her son to give to you with a giddy and determined smile and praised you with fulfilled satisfaction.

You could only exchange a knowing glance at Brett's way, hoping that he'd catch on your unworded question on whether or not he had given the three flowers to the one he loved.

He nodded. He had.

—

THE FATE THAT AWAITS - 1945

"What about the lady, sir?" asked the understudy.

"What about her?"

The young man gulps. "Are we to — say — dispose of her?"

"Zispose of her?" he repeats, as if the thought of it being put into a question was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard. "Has she been given ze serum?"

"Several months prior, sir," says the young amateur, seemingly fragile as he checked his clipboard and looked at you, 'the frozen woman in the tank' with mounting trepidation. He silently willed for the ice to dissolve and for you to wake, but nothing happened. "Only half of it to keep her alive."

"Vell then, absolutely not. Make good use of ze limited resources, ve'll need another subject if it is not to work out with ze sergeant," says the man in the coat. He then takes off his goggles to study the should-be corpse in the ice. "Although, zo something about ze leg before you put her right back in."

The young man glances at where the entirety of your leg should be, but it had been amputated right above your knee. He shudders.

"Duly noted, sir. I'll let the rest know immediately." The young man turns to leave, but the man in the coat refuses to let him do so just yet.

The older man holds out a steady finger coated with threats. "You are an American, yes?"

The young man freezes in place, slowly turning back to face his superior. He blinks, but it feels forced. "Yes, sir."

"And you are new, s'correct?"

"Yes, sir," the young man responds promptly with a respectful nod.

"You are a zoctor, are you not?" he interrogates more.

The young doctor nods once more.

The surname on his breast side of the coat informed the superior of the young man's name. "Say it with me, Garzener. Ha—"

He did not mean to, but out of pure habit, he blurts it out. "Gardner, sir. I'm sorry."

The man in the coat sends him a glare, and the young newbie is silenced at once. "Garzner, say it with me." Gardner's neck is then under the tight grasp of the superior's hand, and he could barely breathe as he is lifted off the ground. "Hail HYDRA."

Brett Gardner manages to choke out the words. "Ha— Hail HYDRA."

The grip on his neck loosens and his superior dismisses him with a gesture, almost as if he had not just been trying to choke the young man to death. As he left that very room, he repeated his purpose.

I'll get you out of here. I'll get you out of here.

This, one might think, has to be one of the most weary and sorrowful ways to repay a debt out of gratitude.

But he did it anyway.