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Today, when Steve looks at Bucky, his lips are blue and his features still with frost. It’s summer and Steve is melting, but facing a Bucky who is frozen and quiet. Nobody has said anything about this particular day yet and Steve is honestly quite happy about that, but it’s still only six-thirty in the morning and he’s guessing it’s all still waiting to happen.
He thinks back, with a slight surge of longing in his gut, to this day more than seventy years ago, back when his face still looked the same but there was no beard growing out, his hair was short and neat and he was half the weight he is now. Bucky had waited for him in the kitchen in their shared apartment when Steve came in with the few groceries his skinny arms would let him carry without the effort sending him into a coughing fit – a few apples, some milk, eggs, a loaf of bread. Bucky would always take the heavy loads, haul home cabbage, onions, carrots, bags of flour, entire sacks of potatoes. Steve always felt bad for not being able to help, despite Bucky insisting he didn’t mind, that the heavy lifting was good for him, therapeutic. That afternoon, he had been bustling around the kitchen when Steve came home. Steve had stopped in the doorway and set down his two grocery bags.
“Oh no,” he’d said, simply, and Bucky had turned around.
“Oh good, you got the bread!” He’d rushed over to pick up the bags from the floor. “Your day go okay?”
“Yeah,” Steve said, looking around. “Bucky, you didn’t have to—you shouldn’t have done this.”
But he was smiling. He hadn’t expected it, but he wasn’t exactly surprised, either.
On the kitchen table was a six-pack of bottled beer and Bucky was stirring a large, steaming pot of what smelled like chicken stew over by the stove. The table was set for two and there was a single lit candle placed in the very centre of it. Everything looked spotless – you could even see out the windows – and on the tiny counter was an equally tiny cake. Store bought – Bucky had no problem cooking, but he wouldn’t bake. He’d made muffins once and they’d been terrible, and Bucky Barnes was not used to being bad at stuff. He’d sulked and said he’d leave the baking to Steve. His chicken stew, though, with the fresh sage and butter and the slow-cooked white meat… but most of the ingredients were expensive, so Bucky only made it for special occasions.
“I wanted to,” Bucky replied, taking the pot off the stove and setting it on the table. “It’s your birthday, Stevie, and I know you don’t really care about it but just humor me, okay? I wanna drink beer and eat cake and I don’t wanna hear you say another word about it.”
“But can we really afford…”
Bucky shushed him impatiently.
“Don’t worry about that, I got it. We’ll be fine. Now would you sit down and eat your dinner or am I gonna have to push you into that chair?”
Steve grinned.
“Fine, alright.”
They ate the stew with bread and drank all six beers and finished the whole cake and Bucky had been in the best mood he’d been in for weeks, gesturing and laughing and talking about going dancing after dinner, but they forgot to keep track of the time and all of a sudden it was too late to start getting ready to go out.
“Aw, hell,” Bucky had said when he’d finally checked his watch. “Guess we’ll have to wait til next week. Sorry, Stevie, I lost track of time.”
Steve wasn’t sure how to say he’d rather stay in with Bucky than go out to dance with girls without it sounding weird, so instead he’d said:
“Don’t worry about it, Buck. I’m too full to dance, anyway.”
They had stayed up talking until it was much later still, then brushed their teeth together by the bathroom sink in their undershirts and boxers. The sight of their bare limbs next to each other in the mirror had made Steve feel a little embarrassed. Bucky’s arms and legs were lean and strong and Steve looked even more underdeveloped in comparison. But he’d only felt bad about it for a moment.
They’d gone to bed and had to open a window as their bedroom faced south and the sun had been glaring into it the whole day, to a point where it was now sweltering. They couldn’t bear the added heat of their covers so they’d gone to sleep without them, Steve on his side with his hand tucked under his pillow, Bucky on his stomach, knee bent, mouth open.
Steve smiles a very small smile at the sight of Bucky’s face now, familiar and kind even through the membrane of cold.
“I miss ya, buddy,” he says softly, but not sadly.
Bucky will come out one of these days and when he does, they can finally fight side by side like they’ve always talked about.
In Stark Tower, Tony has just finished his third tumbler of scotch. He’s been in the shop all day and is now half-watching a documentary on giant bees. He contemplates going to bed, and looks at his phone to check the time, and then spots the date.
He looks at the screen until it goes black. Yes, definitely going to bed. It won’t help – it’s 1:21AM and the 4th of July has only just started, and will still be there when he wakes up, but he doesn’t want to stay up thinking about Steve Rogers. When he wakes, at least it will be morning and he’ll have work to do, coffee to drink, calls to make. Maybe he’ll be distracted until the 5th rolls around.
But his mind is still on Steve when he goes to bed and asks FRIDAY to turn on the AC.
Birthdays are fun when you’re a kid – well, in Tony’s case, they’re fun when you’re an adult, too. With enough cash, adult birthday parties can be legendary. But he bets Steve’s birthday is like any other day. Bets he says a humble thank you to anyone who says anything about it and that’s it. He wouldn’t have treated himself to a piece of cake, a new watch, definitely not a night out drinking. Would have asked people not to throw a party. Probably thinks nothing of it, just pushes on, does his job, shakes hands politely.
Tony’s eyes don’t close for a long time. He stares at the ceiling through the darkness and does his best to ignore the ache in his stomach. Picks up his phone, but puts it down again immediately. Finally, he gives in.
“Happy birthday, Cap,” he whispers, and even though he knows it’s pointless, it’s not until he says the words that his eyes finally slide shut.