Chapter Text
April, 1939
Melissa
I have spent the past eighteen hours hunched over a typewriter, adding final details to this movie script. The script got approved for review from several big-name companies, so I’m finishing the final draft before sending it in.
I look both ways before crossing the street to my apartment and decide to make a stop at Steve and Bucky’s place to tell them the news. I knock incessantly on Bucky and Steve’s door, my painstakingly-typed manuscript in my excited hands.
Running footsteps approach the door, and a disheveled Bucky opens it. He unlocks it and quickly runs back to wherever he was in the house.
Steve.
I immediately let myself in, throw the manuscript on the table, and follow Bucky to the back out the house, where Steve is sitting against the bathroom wall. Blood in dripping out of his nose, and practically gushing out of a nasty cut on his arm.
“I don’t know what to do,” Bucky says frantically. “I carried him home and ran to get you, but you were at work. I don’t know what to do,” he says again. I grab a towel–a white one, to my great disdain–and place it over the bleeding wound.
“Put pressure on it,” I tell Bucky. “I’ll be right back.”
I leave Steve in Bucky’s care as I sprint back to my house. I almost break my ankle in the heels I’m wearing, so I kick them off as soon as I get in my door and run to get my sewing kit. I slow my shaking hands, telling myself to calm down so I don’t freak Steve out before heading back out my door, thread, needle, and whiskey in hand.
When I get back to Bucky’s apartment, Steve is singing a song to keep himself awake, and Bucky is still applying pressure to the wound. I set the sewing kit down and go to the kitchen to get everyone some water.
“How is your nose?” I ask Steve as I hand him his glass.
Instead of saying anything, he moved the rag. It’s not bleeding anymore, but it’s broken.
“What happened?” I ask as Bucky checks the gash on his arm.
“I didn’t start it,” Steve whines.
“That’s not what I asked,” I say with a smile.
“Steve stole an apple from Mr. Smith,” Bucky explains. “Got the shit beat out of him.”
“Jesus, what did Smith do? Cut him with a butchers knife?” I ask Bucky, gesturing at the cut on Steve’s arm.
“I fell into the fence on the way down after he hit me,” Steve explains, his nose still covered with the rag.
“Bleeding still hasn’t stopped,” Bucky tells me. I nod and sit down on the bathroom floor. The three of us are crammed, but I have to get Steve stitched up quickly.
“Grab that whiskey,” I tell Bucky. He grabs the bottle and gives it to Steve, who takes a swig. “Don’t bite your tongue,” I tell Steve. He nods, and I pour some whiskey over the cut on his arm. He groans in pain, his body jolting as he leans forward. I immediately begin my work. In, over, out, in, over, out. Bucky watches over my shoulder as I stitch the wound. Steve’s knuckles are white as he holds onto the sink with his good arm.
“Done,” I say after eight stitches. Steve leans his head back against the wall, taking deep breaths through his nose. “Hold the towel over the wound again. Hopefully the bleeding will stop,” I tell Bucky as I wash my bloody hands in the sink. There is blood all over my nice work dress. Oh well.
I clean up the bloody supplies and make Steve drink two more glasses of water before I let him stand up. He is helped to his bed by Bucky, who is paler than Steve from worry.
Bucky comes back out of the room and looks at me. “Thank you,” he whispers, looking at the floor. “I can’t remember the last time a fight he was in got this bad.”
I sigh shakily, and pat the spot on the couch next to me. He sits down with a huff, leaning in to the warmth and comfort of the soft cushions. Both of us are exhausted from the adrenaline rush. “He’s gonna be okay,” I tell Bucky.
He sighs, and then begins laughing. I sit up to get a better look at him. What could possibly be so funny right now.
“You know,” he says as he wipes tears of laughter from his eyes. “Some day, when the three of us are old and have our own families, these stories are going to be told so frequently.”
I smile at the thought, but I can’t help the pang of disappointment that goes through my head. Three separate families. I haven’t really pictures a future without Steve and Bucky, and somehow, Peggy in the mix too. My best friend from England and best friends from America, all together.
“Those family reunions with all of us will be a crazy time,” I agree, a huge smile on my face. Bucky looks at me, his eyes coming to rest on mine.
“What would it be like if you hadn’t moved here?” he says suddenly. I swear sometimes I think his brain moved a million miles an hour.
“My life or yours?” I ask him.
“Both,” he says. “I mean, I can’t even imagine mine without you in it anymore. You’re as much a part of me as Steve is. So what would yours be like?”
I let out a huff of air as I think. “Slow,” I tell him. “I’d work as a waitress at a diner in downtown London, where my family lives. Go home and have dinner with my siblings and parents. Help raise my nieces and nephews.”
“What about Peggy?” he asks me. I’m surprised he remembers me talking about her. He must see my expression, because he says, “You talked about her so much when you first moved here, at one point I thought that maybe she was your sister. And now whenever you call her you’re giddy for hours in anticipation.”
I never realized how observant Bucky was. “Peggy and I would have worked together. We always did.”
“Any boyfriends?” Bucky asks me. “With a pretty face and charming personality like yours, I don’t see you not having lots of suitors.”
I blush lightly at the compliment. “One. Didn’t work out. That’s one of the reasons I’m here.”
Bucky shifts in his seat, leaning in to hear more. “Well, doll, this is interesting. We’ve never talked about why you really moved here, besides the job.”
I smile. “Michael,” I tell him. “Carter.”
“As in Peggy,” he connects the dots.
I nod. “As in Peggy. Her older brother was my hero. Growing up with Peggy meant growing up with Michael. Family trips, meals, playtime, everything. All of it was with him. I had this–emotional connection with him–nostalgia and happiness, I guess you could say. Good times were equated with Michael. It wasn’t love. Someone who loves you wouldn’t knock up another woman.”
Bucky’s eyes went wide. “Jesus,” he says.
I chuckle dryly. “I’ve never seen Peggy so mad. The idea that one day we could be real sisters made her ecstatic, and then Michael screwed everything up. I didn’t tell her this, but we had been having issues for a while.”
“He sounds like a jerk,” Bucky said, then he looked at me. “No offense.”
I laugh. “None taken. He is a jerk.”
“So that’s why you left? Space?” Bucky asks.
I nod my head. “Space and opportunity. Peggy looks just like Michael, and being around her and her home meant being around him. A blessing as a child, a curse as a teenager. Don’t date in your friend circles,” I laugh.
Bucky smiles and shifts in his seat again. “Yeah. I learned that lesson as a teenager as well.”
“What was her name?” I ask him.
“Amelia,” he tells me. “Sweet. Not the marrying-type, which was good at the time. Casual and fun. But her older sister got married, and she realized what marriage was like, and she voiced her wishes to me. I broke it off cause that’s not what I was looking for.”
“Wow. I never really thought of you as a–,” I search for a proper word.
“Skirt chaser?” he suggests
I snort. “I was going to say heartbreaker but sure if that’s what you call it.”
He laughs and rolls his eyes. “I’m not proud of it. Casual relationships have kind of ruined my younger years. But marriage–it would have to be the right girl. The woman meant for me.”
“Yeah, I understand. You haven’t met the one yet, and that’s fine. She’ll come along,” I say. He says nothing, just nods his head half-heartedly and looks at his feet.
“I wish I knew what to do when she does,” he tells me honestly. I feel a squeezing feeling in my chest. I’m not sure what to say, so I just shrug my shoulders.
“And I wish I could tell you,” I tell him. “I’ve never been good at romantic initiation.”
He laughs. “That is hilarious because you are the most outgoing and honest person I know. Always willing to give your two cents in any situation.”
I groan and pinch the bridge of my nose. “I get that from my mother,” I tell him.
Bucky grins. “It’s not a bad thing, per say. You’re a leading lady. Helping give women a voice in society.”
“Mhm,” I hum.
Buck leans back on the couch and sighs, intertwining his hands behind his head. “What do women want?”
“Are you bipolar?” I ask him.
He grins in amusement. “Maybe. Answer the question.”
“Why are you asking?” I ask slyly.
“Because I want to know how to make a woman happy,” he tells me.
“A wife or a date?” I ask him.
He stops to think. “A wife.”
“Well it depends on the woman. Different women like different things.”
“Let’s say, hypothetically, that it’s you.”
“I’m flattered.”
“Shut up.”
“So you don’t want my answer?”
Bucky hesitates. “I want your answer. How would I make you happy if you were my wife?”
I smile, trying with great difficulty to hide the things I am feeling from him. “Acts of service. Quality time. Physical, but not too physical. Men like to think that women have one favorite love language. Women like all of them. Cover all the bases,” I tell him.
“So be perfect.”
“Nope. Be considerate.”
He pauses. “I’ve never thought of it like that.”
“It’s not easy to put other people’s needs in front of yours. But that’s what marriage is. Deny yourself and fulfill your partners needs. When both people do that, well, you have a happy couple with physical and emotional needs fulfilled,” I tell him.
“So it’s all about not being selfish?”
“Exactly.”
“And all of the love languages?”
“Every one.”
“What’s your personal favorite?”
I smile. “I try my best to give you a broad answer and you come back to narrowing it down to me.” He blushes, so I avoid the awkwardness by answering him. “Acts of service,” I tell him.
He nods, and the conversation lulls semi-awkwardly. I look over at the table and see my manuscript and I jump up. “I forgot about this!” I tell him as I grab it. Bucky’s eyes go wide as I begin telling him about what happened at work today. “I finally got my manuscript approved! This is getting put in front of the biggest names in the film industry, Bucky,” I tell him as I hand him the stack of papers.
“Mel,” he says with a grin as he flips through the 300 or so pages of dialogue. “This is great,” he tells me. “This movie is going to be the hit of the century.”
I smile. “It’s about you and Steve,” I tell him.
He looks up at me with his eyes wide. “What?”
“Mhm,” I nod my head. “James and Steve are the two main characters. Childhood best friends who are inseparable even in old age. Their families are close and they go through life together.”
Bucky smiles. “You wrote a movie about me and Steve?”
“You’re having a hard time believing me…do you want to read it?” I say with a laugh.
“Am I allowed to read it?” he asks.
I gesture at the manuscript in his hand. “I’ll bring you home a copy tomorrow. I might be fired immediately if I gave you the manuscript,” I laugh. He laughs and stands up, pulling me into a hug.
“You’re amazing, Melissa,” he tells me quietly. I hear his heartbeat thundering under my ear, and I smile softly.