Chapter Text
From: [email protected]
Subject: My sister says you can help me
Dear Nev and Max,
My name is James Barnes and I could really use your help. About a year ago, I returned from Afghanistan after I lost my left arm in an IED. I was going through a really dark time and felt really alone. That's when I met Steve on a message board for returned military veterans.
He was reaming out a couple guys for homophobic language when he first caught my eye. We started exchanging private messages and, pretty soon, I asked for his number. Ever since then, we text almost daily and talk on the phone as often as possible. It's been almost seven months. This guy has helped me through some of the darkest parts of my life and I think I may be falling for him.
But I've never seen his face. Every time I bring up video-chatting or ask for a picture, he deflects by saying he's too busy or he's not comfortable with cameras or his job wouldn't allow it.
Steve's an artist and he's always emailing or texting me little drawings he's done of his day, sometimes he's included as a figure in the background, but never so I can see his face.
We both live in New York City, so I've tried to meet up with him but he always has an excuse, mostly about how crazy his work is. About three weeks ago, we actually set a date. I made reservations at a restaurant and got all dressed up: he cancelled the morning of the date.
Despite all these warning signs, I can't turn my back on this powerful connection I have with him. He's saved my life and I think I've saved his.
Please help me.
James Barnes
Bucky Barnes nervously tugs on his shirt hem and darts his eyes toward the Catfish producer sitting at his kitchen table, texting on her phone. She looks out of place in his plain kitchen, with her long pink nails and sparkling earrings.
"They'll be here soon," she said, looking up. And then she smiles, warm and kind. "Relax. I promise they won't bite. This'll be really easy. Just tell them everything. Just like we've talked about. It’ll be totally fine.”
Bucky nods and palms his phone. He likes her. Honestly, he's liked everyone he’s talked to so far from the show. They all seem like good, genuine people who really do want to help him. There’s no reason to be nervous.
His one hand trembles and he presses it flat on the counter. He spent four tours in Afghanistan, joined the Army after high school and just stuck around when it turned out he was great with a sniper rifle. He'd been sent to Ranger school after his first tour and spent his next tours in the Special Forces as a sniper. The most boring day there should've been more stressful than this.
Of course, all of that had ended when his arm had been blown off. He's only just been getting on his feet again after that had derailed his life.
The sweat sticks to the metal back side of the phone and he wipes it along his jeans. He pointedly turns and faces out the window. The brown and gray buildings of Brooklyn extend lopsidedly into the horizon and Bucky can just see the gleam of something that might be water in the gaps.
It’s September: the heat of summer finally giving way to the coolness of fall. That magical time of year when it’s not too hot and not too cold and the rains haven’t come and the sky is still full of warm sunshine and the air isn’t heavy around him. These are the times that good things happen.
He doesn't regret any of this, he tells himself for the hundredth time since Becca first talked him into sending that email in to Catfish two months ago, since they contacted him and said they would be helping him track down Steve. This needs to happen. This is right and good and Bucky can't go on like this. It's not healthy. His sister is right. Even if she is younger than him.
His phone chirps and he looks down at the lit-up screen, face up on his knee.
Steve 9:58 am I can't believe how rude some people are. I just watched three people almost run into a woman carrying a huge bag down the street. You think people would be more polite.
Bucky can't stop the grin. It tugs at the corners of his mouth and then spreads across his face. It feels like the beat of the sun on a cold day. His stomach tightens with something that could’ve been butterflies if he were a twelve year old girl and not a 29 year old army veteran.
Bucky 9:59 am And I suppose you were her knight in shining armor?
Steve 10:01 am Someone had to make sure she got home safe. Plus, I got rewarded.
There's an image attached of a half eaten chocolate chip cookie on a small white plate, crumbs hanging on one edge and a carefully folded napkin tucked at the bottom.
Bucky 10:02 am My hero.
He sets his phone down, screen against the counter. Maybe this (this producer in his kitchen, these TV guys coming, this push to find out who exactly is on the other end of the phone) is all a huge mistake.
He should’ve trusted his gut and never let Becca talk him into this. The way things are, the hundreds of tiny texts they send each other through out the day, the little pictures Steve draws just for him, the way Steve's voice is deep and just a little rough at the end of the day when they talk on the phone, it's good. It's not perfect or even ideal - not being able to see Steve or really know Steve. The physical absence is an aching burr inside that never really goes away, made worse by how close Steve feels most of the time. But it's all better than anything Bucky has had before.
He doesn't want to give this up - doesn't want to risk losing it.
Honestly, he never meant to let it get this far. He wouldn't have. Before he left, his relationships had been few and far between. Even before the service, he'd kept pretty much everyone at an arm's distance. But Steve's steady, open presence was so easy to rely on, to draw comfort from in a time that he needed it the most. He had been falling for Steve's companionship before he even fully realized how little he knew about the man outside their conversations.
There's a real possibility that, if he goes through with all this, he could lose Steve, lose that warm voice and the doodles and the easy conversations and the warm acceptance. He'd be alone again. There would be no deep voice asking about his day. No presence on the other end of his email or his message, interested in his opinions and feelings on everything. Interested in him. Caring about him. Supporting him.
But Becca was right. If this is all a lie; if Steve wasn't a bi, late-twenties army veteran originally from Brooklyn, if he didn't care for Bucky the way he cared for Steve, then Bucky needs to know. And he needs to know now. He needs to know before it's too late and his heart gets really really broken.
Maybe they could be friends, he tells himself, even if everything is a lie. If Steve is a bored middle aged guy, maybe they can at least still talk and Bucky can focus on finding a relationship with someone else, a guy that's real and present and tangible. It will be healthy. This is like ripping off a bandaid from a mostly healed cut.
This is good. This is necessary.
The producer stands up and tucks away her phone. "Okay. They're gonna knock on the door in about 30 seconds. It'll be Nev and Max, a camera guy and two other producers. Just let them take the lead - tell them everything we talked about. You'll do fine." She smiled again and slips to stand in the hallway that leads from the living room to the back of the apartment. He can just see her shadow against the sunlight coming from under his bedroom door.
Bucky shifts again, wishes he had decided to put his prosthesis on. He stares wildly around the room once more. The place is neat and the furniture is second hand but in good condition. There’s no porn on the couch cushions and no beer cans on the coffee table. His homework for the community college classes he's taking is neatly stacked on his desk with his laptop next to it. There’s even a lavender air freshener plugged into the wall somewhere, thanks to Becca. He looks like a respectable adult. He slips his phone into his pocket and walks toward the door. He's halfway there when the knock comes and he swallows hard. Here goes nothing.
He opens the door.
It's easier than he expects. Nev and Max are open and friendly and they don't stare at his empty sleeve like some people do. They shake his hand and they're about his age and young and open. He finds himself relaxing despite the camera being set up in the corner of his living room, just behind the blue couch, and the producers clumping in the kitchen around the table.
"So," Nev says when they sit down on the couch, Max on the blue tufted arm chair that had been a hand-me-down from the previous tenant. "Tell us about Steve."
Bucky feels the smile spread across his face before he can stop it, coming even despite all his questions and fears. He ducks his head and pulls at his hair. It's long now, almost past his chin. No one here is telling him to cut it.
"When I came back from the war," he says, "I was messed up. I'd just lost my arm. Got my discharge and I didn't even want to go in public. I was living with my sister then. After a month or so, I started going to the VA, doing group therapy and someone one-on-one and working through the PTSD. When the Battle of New York happened, it was hard to get into the center every day with all the trains that were down. One of my therapists recommended this online site for vets where they can share their experiences. Just talk you know? Sort of like a 24/7 group you can always show up to. It's a private, locked site and you have to verify you're a veteran to the moderator before you're let in."
"So you know this guy really is a vet, then," Max says. He's holding a small camera in one hand, down below his chest, but he's meeting Bucky's eyes like he really cares.
It feels weird, laying his heart out like this. The only other person he’s confessed this all to is Becca. Bucky isn’t the type fall head over heels, get all mushy and want to get married with 2.5 kids and a dog and a yard. But. Somehow this has been different. This has felt like it was meant to be. Except for all the ways it wasn’t. Like how he couldn’t even confirm this about Steve.
"I checked with the moderators a couple months ago. Turns out, while they do require initial verification, they don't do any checking to make sure the name the person signs up under matches what they said in their verification. Plus, they don't require photo ID so anyone could pass the verification if they knew enough info about a military guy," he shrugs. "I get why they don't match up those things, but it doesn't help me out."
Nev frowns. "So this guy could theoretically be the family member or friend or something of someone who's actually been in the military."
"Yep," Bucky looks down. He knows they’ve seen this before, but the embarrassment tugs at him. He presses on, wanting to make them understand how he had gotten to this point. ”I first noticed Steve on the forums about three months after I joined. I said it in the email I sent you guys. He was telling some guy off for calling another poster faggot," he stops, cringes. Becca would’ve smacked him if she was here. "You guys can bleep that out, right?"
Max nods.
"After that, I started noticing his posts. He was always looking out for the little guy, defending anyone the rest of the people would be making fun of. I started replying, even broke up a few of his arguments when things got too heated."
Steve had been passionate, articulate, driven. There had been weird things he hadn't known (Bucky still thinks he only gets about a quarter of the pop culture references he makes) but he had been genuine and funny and Bucky had been drawn to him. Like a moth to a flame, to be cliché.
"Then we started messaging. He gave me his number about a month later. He was going to be out of the country, he said, and couldn't be on the forum as much but he still wanted to talk. To me. We talk every day now."
That could be an understatement. Their conversations are not always deep or meaningful - but they last all day sometimes. It's the little stuff. Something funny a coworker does at Steve's work. A pretty cloud that Bucky sees on his walk. Annoyance at the subway or the coffee line or a delay at the airport.
The heavy stuff is there too. When Steve wakes up from nightmares and Bucky is still awake because he couldn't ever calm down enough. The guilt that eats at both of them. The uncertainty of the future. The urge to just curl up and stop thinking for awhile.
When Bucky had pushed himself to sign up at the community college, Steve had been his cheerleader and his coach. He'd sympathized through the brutal first quarter when Bucky had struggled through one Intro to Engineering course. And cheered when he'd finished at the top of the class.
"You have a dream," Steve had said on the phone, the night Bucky had signed up for a full load of classes the next quarter.
"Don't let anyone tell you that you can't do this."
His phone has been quiet during the conversation and Bucky resists the urge to pull it out of his pocket, to check it, make sure he hasn't missed a text from Steve. It's hard. He finally had to tell Becca about Steve when he couldn’t keep his eyes off his phone during one of their frequent dinners.
"We talk about everything. Our day. What makes us happy or sad or angry. I was doing better with therapy before this. But Steve... He understands me. We're both from Brooklyn. Both raised Catholic. Both fucked up. He makes me laugh when no one else can. I didn't even realize how deep I was until he went away for a week."
"What happened?"
It had been a few months into their texting. Steve had been texting him about some co-worker that was frustrating and Bucky had replied with sympathy and a funny picture of a grumpy cat he'd googled. And then, no response. Steve hadn’t texted back that minute, or that hour, or that afternoon, or even that day. There had been no speaking bubbles. The message had said delivered. But nothing. Even when Bucky had finally texted again right before he had gone to bed: nothing.
At first, Bucky had been unconcerned (Steve had gotten busy or distracted) and then a little annoyed as the hours dragged. The next morning, when his phone had still been empty of any word from Steve, the annoyance had turned to a bit of peeved anger. Couldn’t he have least let Bucky know he wasn’t going to be around for awhile? Then Bucky had sent another message after his afternoon class – and that message had been returned as undeliverable. He remembered standing in the afternoon sunlight, blinking down at the message. Maybe Steve had lost his phone? Or broken it? But then Steve would’ve emailed. Bucky remembered swallowing and feeling the unease come low in his gut.
Then, the next day, the Triskelion collapsed and super-secret military helicarriers designed by Hyrdra had crashed into the Potomac with countless men and women dead and missing. And none of Bucky’s messages went through to Steve’s phone.
"I'm pretty sure he's still in some sort of military group. It doesn't seem like active deployment but I know he still works for some government organization. Around the time the Triskelion went down, he stopped texting for awhile. I was worried," he clears his throat and tries not to remember the sleepless nights and the fear in his gut. The words are an understatement but he can’t bring himself to lay this part of him bare. ”I was worried that he'd been there. I knew he worked in D.C. and so many people died. It was all over the news.”
Bucky has to stop. He takes a deep breath and a producer is there with a glass of water. He drinks deeply and then gives into the urge to check his phone. He pulls it out of his pocket, punches in the passcode. Steve's half eaten cookie is still in his messages from just a few minutes ago. He doesn’t elaborate any further about that week Steve was missing.
Doesn’t tell them that he called up the few army contacts he had in D.C., trying to get a casualty list. How, when he had finally gotten the list after calling in pretty much every favor he had, he had spent a torturous afternoon marking off every Steve/Steven/Stephen that had died (there had been 18 men) and imagining that all of them were all his Steve. That he would never know Steve’s last name. Never be invited to the funeral. Never know what had happened. Those days weren’t a good time.
"About three days after it all went down, he started texting me again from a new number. He apologized a bunch but never really explained. Just said work had gotten crazy. I asked if he was okay and he said he was.” Bucky had been too relieved to be pissed at the time. He had spent too many days imagining Steve dead at the bottom of the Potomac to ask too many questions.
“Then, he told me about three months ago that he had moved to New York and was staying with some friends in Manhattan. I said we should meet up and he kept saying he was busy with work. I let it slide for awhile but then I started pressing again. We set a date. I made reservations at this swanky place near the Park. I was gonna do it right, you know? Wine and dine him. Tell him how I felt. How I feel."
The hurt is still fresh and it burns a little as he remembers: the suit he had picked up from the dry cleaners the night before, the flowers he had ordered, the careful route for the after dinner walk that he planned. “He canceled the morning of the date. Said something had come up at work. Becca, my sister, convinced me to email you guys the next morning and I haven't tried to meet up with him since."
"Any chance he's Hydra?" Max is smiling like it's a joke but Bucky can see the tightness around his eyes.
Ever since the helicarriers fell and the Triskelion collapsed, it’s one of those secret fears that everyone has. There’s been a couple stories in the news - couples married for twenty years and suddenly one of them is a member of Hydra and wanted for high treason.
Bucky shakes his head. "I've got no proof outside my gut. But no, I really don't think he is." He’d be lying if he’d said it had never crossed his mind. Steve had gotten mysteriously busy right around the time all Hydra members had been put on every terror watch list in existence. But this was Steve. Bucky’d be willing to bet that Pope Francis was a member of Hydra before Steve.
"Have you guys ever talked about how you feel?" Nev leans forward. "Do you think you're a couple?"
"Not in so many words. That's something I wanted to talk about in person. I want to be. And I think he does to. I just don't understand why he won't meet me. Or let me see his face."
"Have you asked to video chat?"
"Nope. He said in the beginning that he's not good with technology and he doesn't like cameras. I didn't really question it until he didn't want to meet."
"Can you show us some of what he's sent you?"
Bucky pulls out the phone and goes to his iMessages. He hesitates and then scrolls up to the day before. There's a photograph of little cartoon figures on lined notebook paper. Captain America in full regalia is pointing out of the paper from below a rainbow. The caption beneath says "Captain America wants YOU to support equality."
"He's good," Nev says, turning the phone and looking closer. It makes Bucky feel a little proud. "A lot of political stuff?"
"Yeah. He always drawing Captain America as like a liberal, hippie, commie type. Fighting injustices all over the world. I think he has a little crush." He huffs a little. He's teased Steve about it a couple times. When Steve had moved to New York just a few days after the press had announced that Captain America had officially moved into Avengers Tower, Bucky had given him shit. He liked that easiness, that familiarity with someone's little quirks and likes.
"Anything else you can tell us about him?"
He stares down at his phone. At the little cartoon and the hundreds and thousands of little messages behind it. "I just want to meet him. Sometimes he... Sometimes he talks like he used to look different. Like something happened to him in the war. And I wonder if that's what makes him not want to meet or take a picture. Like he's ashamed of how he looks now. If you talk to him, tell him I don't care what he looks like. I've told him. But tell him again. Whatever it is, it's not about how he looks."
It's something he's thought a lot about. Piecing it together from Steve's few comments and the lack of photos, Steve had looked different before the war. He'd never given specifics but Bucky always wondered if he was embarrassed by scars, scared how Bucky would react to how he looked. It didn't matter though. Bucky had started falling in love without even seeing him. It didn't matter what he looked like.
Nev nods. "We'll be in touch, okay? Tomorrow. Let you know what we find out."
Max sets down his camera. "You've seen the show?"
"My sister made me watch it when I told her about Steve."
"Then you know how rarely these have happy endings. I just want you to prepare yourself. And really really know what you want from this going in."
"I know." Bucky hesitates, mulls the words over. "Whoever the person is, they helped me through some tough stuff. And I've helped them too. As long as they weren't lying about that, I think we can at least be friends."
"Good attitude." Nev stands up and shakes his hand. The camera powers down in the corner. "So, tomorrow then? And we'll meet your sister then too?"
"Yeah, sounds good."
After they leave, Bucky can't help but pick up his phone. Steve hasn't texted again.
Bucky 11:02 am We should get lunch. My treat. There's a little Irish pub in Brooklyn that I think you'd like.
The delay is only a few seconds before the little bubbles appear. He waits. They go on for awhile. Finally:
Steve 11:04 am I'd love to, Buck. But my work is so busy right now. When we do go, it'll be my treat :)
Bucky stares down at the smiley face and wishes it were that easy.
Bucky 11:04 am It's a date