I’ve been thinking about what it would be like once one of your kids gets to high school, and having to help them navigate the emotional minefield of their classmates getting crushes on 40s!Bucky, or get teased about how handsome he looked in his 20s.
Bc on one hand, you’ve seen photos and heard stories from that era, so you get it, but also yeah, you can understand why your kid would be embarrassed—that’s their Dad. And the situation only escalates once the class has to do its mandatory class visit to the Cap exhibit, w/ you and Buck chaperoning.
Either way, I feel like Bucky would absolutely milk the situation for its worth w/ a lot of playful ribbing about how he thinks he still looks pretty good in his old age.
oh this definitely happens lol
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Your kid bursts through the front door like the world just ended.
You barely have time to look up from the kitchen counter before the backpack drops to the floor, the shoes kick off in record speed, and there’s a muffled, “I hate everything,” shouted into a pillow on the couch.
Bucky glances up from where he’s crouched beside the oven, setting a tray of cookies to cool. “What’s wrong, kiddo?”
“Mmmfff.”
You raise an eyebrow. “That’s not English.”
A muffled groan, then: “Everyone in class found the pictures.”
The look Bucky gives you is pure confusion — but you know immediately. Oh, you know. You saw this coming the moment your kid’s history syllabus mentioned the “World War II: American Heroes” module.
You bite back a laugh, turning your face away so they don’t see you smiling.
Bucky blinks. “Mine? Like—old pictures? Of me?”
“They showed us the Cap exhibit today, Dad! There’s this giant photo of you and Uncle Steve and that Howling Commandos group shot, and everyone started whispering and laughing and—ugh!”
“Oh no,” you whisper, entirely unconvincing in your sympathy.
Bucky, of course, looks far too delighted. “Wait, wait, lemme get this straight—your classmates saw an old photo of me, and now you’re embarrassed?”
“Dad!”
He leans an elbow on the counter, smirking. “What’d they say?”
“That you were hot!” your kid practically yells, then groans and hides their face again. “Everyone was talking about it. Mrs. Thompson even said something about ‘Mr. Barnes being quite the looker in his day’—gross, she’s like, fifty!”
Bucky’s grin is downright sinful. “Well, she’s not wrong.”
You slap his arm, laughing. “James Buchanan Barnes, don’t you dare.”
He looks offended. “What? I’m just sayin’, I was a handsome guy back then.”
“Was?” you tease.
That earns you a wink. “Still am, doll.”
You groan, laughing harder now, while your poor child moans into the couch cushions like they’re living through the most mortifying experience of their life.
By the next week, things only escalate.
Apparently, a few brave (or reckless) teens in your kid’s class start bringing printed screenshots of “vintage Bucky Barnes” from online—grainy black-and-white shots of him in uniform, a toothpick in his mouth, a teasing smirk caught mid-laugh beside Steve.
You hear snippets of conversation from your kid’s friends when they visit after school:
“Your dad was so fine in the forties.”
“Do you think he still has the uniform?”
“Oh my god, shut up!”
Each time, your kid’s face turns crimson.
Each time, Bucky finds a way to wander into the room just in time to make it worse.
“Hey, kids,” he’ll say casually, passing through in a worn Henley and jeans that have no business fitting that well. “Anyone need snacks?”
“Hi, Mr. Barnes,” the friends chorus, half-giggling, half-starstruck.
Your kid nearly implodes.
Later that night, when the guests are gone, they glare at him across the dinner table. “Can’t you be, like, normal for one second?”
Bucky chuckles around a forkful of pasta. “Define normal.”
“Not flirting with my friends!”
He smirks. “Wasn’t flirting, sweetheart. Just being polite.”
You nudge him under the table. “Polite doesn’t usually involve flexing your forearms while offering cookies.”
He smirks into his wine glass. “Just stretching, doll.”
Your kid groans again. “I’m moving out.”
It all comes to a head during the Cap exhibit field trip.
The school sends out the permission slip with a polite request for parent chaperones, and of course, Bucky volunteers before you can even blink.
“Bucky,” you warn, “this is going to be absolute chaos. You know that, right?”
He grins. “Oh, I know. Can’t wait.”
Your kid, overhearing, looks horrified. “No. No. You are not coming. You’re going to ruin my life.”
Bucky just pats their shoulder. “Kid, I already gave you life.”
They scream into a pillow again.
The morning of the field trip, Bucky’s in rare form — hair tied back, sleeves rolled to his elbows, jacket slung over one shoulder. You can practically hear the teenage swooning about to happen.
You stand in the museum lobby, watching him charm the teachers within five minutes flat. Mrs. Thompson, the same one who’d called him “quite the looker,” is suddenly all smiles and fluttery laughter.
Your kid stands between you and Bucky, arms crossed, muttering, “I’m not here. I don’t exist.”
Then the tour guide ushers everyone into the main hall — and there it is. The massive Cap exhibit.
The old propaganda posters, the ration cards, the worn photos. And right in the middle: that picture.
The one of the Howling Commandos in Italy, sun slicing through the dust, Steve in his captain’s jacket and Bucky beside him, sleeves rolled, grin crooked, eyes gleaming like he owns the world.
You’ve seen it a hundred times, but it still hits you. There’s something about that boyish confidence, the kind of light only youth and war and impossible hope can carve into a face.
Your kid stares at it, then side-eyes Bucky. “You look so—different.”
He hums. “You mean better?”
“Dad.”
He chuckles. “Relax, kid. I’m just sayin’—look at that jawline.”
You swat him. “Bucky!”
“What? I worked hard for that jawline.”
The chaperone next to you hides a laugh behind her hand.
And then—because fate has a twisted sense of humor—a group of students from another class wanders by, whispering loudly enough to be heard.
“Is that him?”
“Holy crap, he looks exactly like that picture.”
“Dude, he aged like fine wine.”
You watch your child die a little inside.
Bucky, of course, milks it for all it’s worth. He poses mockingly beside the photo, crossing his arms, giving that same little half-smile. “You think I should get this framed, doll? Put it up in the living room?”
“I will move out today,” your kid mutters.
You can’t help laughing, slipping your hand into his metal one. “You’re insufferable.”
“Hey, can I help it if my charm’s timeless?”
You roll your eyes, but when the tour moves on, you catch the quiet look he gives the photo again. The smile fades a little, replaced with something softer. A mix of nostalgia and disbelief.
“That feels like a whole other life,” he says quietly, fingers brushing the edge of the glass. “That kid didn’t have a clue what was comin’. Never thought he’d live long enough to be someone’s dad.”
You squeeze his hand. “He turned out pretty great, though.”
His eyes lift to yours, and for a moment it’s just the two of you — the weight of years between them and now, the wars and the peace, the ghosts and the laughter.
He exhales. “Guess he did.”
Then, right on cue, your kid pipes up from behind: “Can we go already? People are staring.”
Bucky flashes that familiar grin again, the mischief snapping right back into place. “What? You don’t wanna tell everyone your old man was a national hero and a heartthrob?”
“Dad!”
You’re laughing too hard to stop him now.
By the time the bus ride home rolls around, your kid’s hiding in their hoodie while Bucky recounts the story to every other parent in earshot. You try to shush him, but he’s on a roll — imitating your kid’s horrified face, bragging about “the good ol’ days,” joking about how maybe he should sign autographs next time.
When you finally get home, your kid storms upstairs muttering about therapy bills, and you collapse onto the couch, still laughing.
Bucky leans back beside you, smug as can be. “Told ya, doll. Still got it.”
You tilt your head toward him, smiling. “Oh, you definitely do.”
He grins, eyes glinting. “Even if the kid never forgives me?”
“Especially then.”
You lean over and kiss him — and somewhere upstairs, your kid yells, “Gross!”
You both laugh into the kiss, the sound warm and alive, echoing through a house that’s full of love, noise, and the kind of chaos that makes every bit of it worth it.
And if Bucky prints out that photo and hangs it in the hallway the next week — well. You suppose he’s earned it.
