the ring from london
bucky bought a ring.
there’s no way he didn’t. he kept it hidden, in a small navy box tucked away behind letters from his sisters. he bought it somewhere in london — some pawn shop he didn’t remember the name of. he knew steve would say yes, even if no one else would ever know he did. in fact, he’d probably be mad bucky hadn’t got the guts to ask sooner. but bucky wanted away from all this — the blood matted into their hair, the gunpowder on their faces, the dirt in their fingernails, their ever-wet socks.
the last thing he thought of as he lay in the cold and unforgiving austrian snow, was that shiny silver band tucked away in the back of his bag back at base.
now imagine steve.
it’s 2011. everyone you’ve ever loved is dead or geriatric. you’re a national icon.
so you go to see your exhibit in the smithsonian because someone deemed a suicidal gay man dressed in stars and stripes worthy of an exhibit. you see your best friend the love of your life has his own part of it. he should be the whole damn exhibit.
then an automated voice directs you to a small glass display case in the corner. the last of sergeant barnes’ personal belongings, collected from his tent at base camp. february, 1944.
there’s a navy box with a plain, silver band to the very far left. the notecard says something about the possibly barnes got married before he shipped out, but there was no record of it.
maybe it wasn’t official.
but steve knew.
and his heart shatters.