Work Text:
The sun's last dying rays of scarlet are pouring through the window when Bucky finally arrives home from the Brooklyn Navy Yard. Steve's been expecting him for a while now, and his heart skips several beats in relief when he hears Bucky's familiar tromp up the steps to their apartment. The relief both all-consuming and senseless; if anyone can handle a fight, it's James Buchanan Barnes. It's Steven Grant Rogers that has the trouble. Of course, Bucky always likes to point out it's because Steve can't keep his damn mouth shut for five minutes at a time, and likes to stand up to the very guys who ought to make him run, like the little punk-ass shit he is, so Steve had better keep attending church 'cause one day Bucky ain't gonna be there, no sir, and it's going to be in God's hands whether he survives.
Of course, Bucky usually snaps this at him while he cleans Steve's newest set of wounds with the gentlest hands, so Steve just lets the tirade wash over him and closes his eyes while Bucky keeps Steve together for just a little while longer. Steve's skin, so fragile, always flushes beneath Bucky's touch, and Steve swallows and tries not to memorize the way Bucky's fingers curl against his body.
Today, though, there have been no fights. Still, the tread is slow, weary, as Bucky climbs the stairs, like the whole world is heavy on his shoulders. Steve hates it, and wishes he could bear some of the load. Knowing him, though, his crooked spine and skinny shoulders would crack and that'd be one more thing for Bucky to carry, because Bucky doesn't ever give up on Steve, not ever, and Steve won't do that to Bucky.
Instead, he opens the door before Bucky has time to fumble with the key, and smiles helplessly as Bucky starts at Steve's sudden appearance then grins wide. His stomach grumbles as the scent of dinner reaches him, and Steve's smile metamorphs into a grin that mirror's Bucky's. The sight of him makes Steve's heart skip. The strain disappears from Bucky's shoulders as he steps inside, shucking off his shoes. "Something smells good," he hums as he sniffs.
"Chicken, stewed tomatoes, and mashed potatoes," Steve agrees, shutting the door behind Bucky. It's been hot this summer and Steve's shirt clings to him, just like Bucky's own is sweat-soaked. More dangerous was the way the heat had made him dizzy, but it's passed now, so Steve makes no mention of it. Too much heat, too much cold, too much smoke, too much pollen - Steve just has to keep breathing and hope for the best. Besides, the heat of the stove is worth it when Bucky goes right to the food and plates himself up a huge serving. Since starting work at the Navy Yard last summer, plus what Bucky's folks helped them start out with, and a few of Steve's cartoons selling to the papers, plus the odd jobs each of them manage to pick up, they're - well, they're actually doing okay.
It's cause for celebration.
They eat in comfortable, calm silence, because even though Steve isn't gonna grow much more, both of them still feel like they have hollow stomachs more days than not. The presence of fresh meat and tomatoes seems almost like unthinkable largesse from where Steve was a year and a half ago when his ma's medical bills kept piling up as she slipped further and further away. Now, though they still scrimp and save every penny for when Steve inevitably gets sick, or for when winter comes and there are even fewer jobs, they're no longer living on the cusp of being thrown out onto the streets. Steve won't rely on Bucky's parents, not when they've got three daughters to care for and busy lives of their own to make ends meet. It's enough for Bucky to have moved it, and they still go to church with the Barnes family every Sunday for dinner because Steve's another son to him. They're even thinking of putting some money aside for art classes sometime in the next year, something where they can learn to create beauty for beauty's sake. Bucky always insists Steve's got real talent that can't be wasted, and well, Bucky's always dreamed of being an architect. Figuring out how to to marry form and function in a studio seems like a good place to start.
That's thoughts of the future, though. For now, Bucky sits back, belches, and announces, "So I was thinking."
Steve's mouth drops open and he puts a hand to his chest. "I've got a bad heart!" he proclaims. "What're you doing, making such unheard of announcements without warning? You might have made me keel over!"
Bucky scowls at him but there's laughter glittering in his eyes in the last rays of the sun, bright and warm and Steve feels like he's been drinking moonshine with the way his blood seems to bubble with desire. "Why do I even stay with your punk ass?" he moans, kicking Steve lightly under the table.
"Because I know the secret of making your mama's stewed tomatoes," Steve replies promptly. "And because you are the most helpless person I know when it comes to laundry. You'd never catch a dame if you washed your own clothes. They'd smell you coming from a mile away and take a swim in the harbor; even that'd smell better'n you."
Bucky pushed back from the table. "Is that so? Well maybe I oughta make you come smell my armpits, because if it's such a punishment, it's the only one you deserve, Stevie!" He darts around the table, and Steve laughs, free and a little wild, and dodges as best as he can. Bucky's the only one that doesn't let Steve's frailty keep him from enacting his revenge, although he never pushes Steve farther than he's sure Steve can handle.
Sure enough, once Steve's been squashed beneath Bucky's sweaty arm for a few minutes, his knuckles lightly grinding into Steve's skull, Bucky lets him go and pushes him towards the couch. Steve staggers a little, sniffing to try and clear the dense odor of sweat from his nose. He makes several disgusted noises while Bucky laughs. "I'll go clean up and be back in a few minutes, okay, Steve?" Steve's breathing has gone a little ragged - a fact that he'd be more than happy to blame on Bucky's stench - but it's still hot even without the sun, and he's exhausted from his day as well. He flops down on the couch and waves an acknowledgement, closing his eyes, as the evening breezes off the water start to flow in through the open window.
The walls are paper thin, so he can hear when the water starts running in the bathroom. He doesn't think of Bucky, strong, tall, dark hair curling in gentle waves. That's the look Steve likes best, but Bucky usually slicks it back when it's longer, or keeps it so short that the curls disappear. Steve sighs, and doesn't think of the way it would feel between his fingers, because he's seventeen years old and knows the risks all too well, but there's not a dame whose eyes are brighter, whose mouth looks sweeter, whose body is warmer.
Bucky knows all of Steve's failings, all of his sins, but Steve won't put this one on Bucky's shoulders. In this, at least, Steve's crippled body can hold its own.
Bucky returns, and Steve's heart blazes with love, and the feeling of moonshine in his veins is back, because Bucky tilts the world topsy-turvy and Steve won't ever stop loving him. "So," he says over the pounding in his ears, because he is seventeen and weak and desperately in love with his best friend but he is not stupid, "you said you had a thought?"
Bucky pulls up Steve's feet and collapses on his end of the couch, dressed in clean, cool clothes, his bare feet outstretched. His hair is just long enough that a few tendrils curl around his ears as they dry. Steve's feet fall into Bucky's lap; his broad palm covers Steve's toes, which are cool even in summer thanks to poor circulation. "I thought we might deserve an afternoon out, having some fun," he said. "I mean, your birthday is on a workday, so there isn't much we can do except maybe go up to the roof and eat a treat while we enjoy the fireworks, and you know my ma'll want you over for dinner like always, but I thought this Sunday we might go to Coney Island after church instead of going to my folks' place. Play some games, eat hot dogs, all of it. A proper birthday celebration."
Steve's lips part, unsure what to say, but Bucky cuts in, voice fierce and low before Steve can speak. "Don't say we don't have the money. Don't say we should spend it on other things. We deserve this, Stevie, we deserve to have the occasional afternoon spent makin' fools of ourselves at the beach like anyone else. We deserve to have good things to keep us going, deserve to have fun. We've got a real good amount of money saved, Stevie, for the first time in our lives you're not counting pennies and I've got a good job down at the Navy Yard, and if I can't think of any better way to spend our hard-earned money than going out with you. If Coney Island isn't your idea of fun, that's okay. We'll do something else. But don't say no because you think it'd be a waste to go out and enjoy ourselves for a little while. Please."
Steve reaches out, slender, pale fingers wrapping around Bucky's deep golden wrist. Summers always turn him bronze, his blue eyes standing out in his face, framed by lashes as dark as though Steve had drawn them in charcoal. He thinks of all the things he could say, and his lips spread in a slow smile. "Since when do we have to go to the beach to spend an afternoon making fools of ourselves, Buck? Seems to me we're pretty good doing it right here."
Bucky laughs, head tilting back, and Steve can feel the pulse of Bucky's heart beneath his fingertips.
~*~
Steve can't remember the last time he stood in the ocean. It's only the first of July, so the water is still cold, but it swirls around his ankles while he wriggles his toes in the sand. Bucky slings an arm over his shoulder. "Feels nice, doesn't it?" Instead of shouting over the crowds, he leans in real close and whispers it into Steve's ear. Steve shivers, and beams up at Bucky.
"First time I've felt cool all summer," he agrees. With the brisk wind blowing in off the ocean, even the sunlight seems less stifling. Steve's skin prickles between Bucky's body pressed close to his side and the cold water lapping at his legs. "We gotta come down here more often. It's practically in our backyard, and I know we don't have much free time, but," he inhales deeply, smelling fresh salt air and hot dogs, "this is worth it." He heads a little deeper into the water, until it's up to his thighs, soaking his threadbare pant legs where they're rolled up. Steve hardly notices, because he's practically grown out of them, but they can last one more day, can soak up sand and sun and salt spray and the woodsy scent of Bucky standing close. Steve inhales again, closing his eyes, trying to memorize it.
When he opens his eyes Bucky's staring down at him, expression open and raw for a heartbeat before it brightens. Steve doesn't know how to respond before the look is gone and Bucky is ruffling Steve's hair like he's still a kid. Steve tries to squirm away but Bucky just wraps his arms around Steve's waist and twirls him in a circle, threatening to dunk Steve into the water while Steve shrieks in protest. Finally, after Steve's cried mercy, Bucky slings his arm around Steve's shoulders again, hugging him tight for a long moment. Then he starts pulling Steve forward through the water, not out deeper, nor towards shore, but parallel to both. "Come on, let's walk through the water until we get to the hot dog line. I'm starved, and the sand's too hot."
"You're always starved," Steve grouses, but let Bucky tow him through the water, keeping the bigger waves from knocking him over, laughing uproariously as they stumble around, trying to see the sand beneath their feet and splashing each other. Steve pretends once or twice that he's going to get his revenge and tackle Bucky into the water, never mind that it'll get them both wet, but even though it's not too deep, Steve's an awful swimmer and Bucky's not much better, so they keep close to the shore and settle for dumping handfuls of water over each other's heads.
By the time they slog back to shore, they're soaked, and they may as well have dunked each other. Grinning and breathless, they join the line for their own taste of Nathan's Famous.
"Four, please," Bucky declares, giving the vendor twenty cents. He adds mustard to all four dogs, and passes two to Steve, keeping two for himself. They find a pile of rocks to take a seat on, drying off. Steve can still taste the salt every time he licks his lips, and his elbow jostles with Bucky's. "Thanks," he says, real quiet. "I mean it. This is already - after my mom - thanks."
Bucky glances at him, then returns his gaze to the ocean. A smile tugs at his mouth. Bucky's hair is drying in curls this time, too, and Steve wants to kiss where those curls touch the delicate skin along Bucky's nape. "It's my treat too," Bucky replied mildly, "and our money."
Well, it's mostly Bucky's money, but Steve tries to hold his own in other ways - such as by making sure Bucky doesn't run off the dames he chases by smelling like he bathed in a pool of sweat. Besides, Bucky's never demanded anything of him, and he's Steve's best friend, and the only family he has. Steve polishes off the first hot dog, licking his fingers and moaning in delight.
"Aw, Buck, I think you're getting sunburned," Steve says, noticing the flush along Bucky's cheekbones once he's done with his first hot dog. Bucky's well into his second one, but he's not paying attention to his food, just Steve.
Bucky blinks and then touches his face self-consciously, and then shakes his head. "Naw, it's just starting to get a little toasty for me; it's starting to get real hot out. What do you say we finish these while we walk? We've still got some money to spend and I want to ride the Cyclone." A wicked expression crosses his face, and Steve stops in his tracks.
"Oh no. Oh no Buck, you never said anything about getting onto a roller coaster!" Steve cries, gesturing with his hotdog like it's a weapon. Bucky, cool as a cucumber, just takes another bite of his own dog and raises a brow. "I don't think being hurtled around at a hundred miles an hour is fun, any more than it's fun to climb up that high and be dropped like a sack of potatoes!"
"You're not dropped," Bucky replies, calm. There's a devious glint to his eyes that Steve doesn't trust. "It's like falling down a little. Really, really fast, so fast you lift off the seat and feel like you're going to go crashing into the ground."
Steve stares at him, horrified. "Absolutely not."
"Okay then." Bucky starts walking again, and that's too easy, that's too damn easy. Steve waits for the other shoe to drop, annoyed. He doesn't move an inch, feet firmly planted in the sand. "Too bad Steve Rogers can handle the McAllister twins without flinching, but a little old wooden roller coaster stops him in his tracks. What a shame, all the boys will be telling the story about what made you finally give in and run."
"You wouldn't."
Bucky looks over his shoulder, and Steve knows he wouldn't, because it's Bucky, but he also knows that Bucky will never, ever, ever let him live this down. "Fuck you, Barnes," he finally snarls, but that just makes Bucky laugh and haul him towards the Cyclone.
They wait in line, and they're not even halfway through before Steve's hot dogs feel like a ball of lead in his stomach. He won't let Bucky suspect even for an instant, so he keeps up his part of the conversation, and tries not to scream in sympathy when the people on the ride go hurtling down towards earth. It's not that Steve's afraid, 'cause he doesn't let anything frighten him enough to run, but the Cyclone is probably the highest Steve's ever been in his life, and no one is supposed to enjoy falling like that without a pair of wings to save them.
No one.
The line grows shorter, and then shorter still. Steve's stomach cramps with sudden fear, but Bucky's face is alight with excitement, and he's standing close to Steve, their shoulders brushing as he describes some joke from the Navy Yard. Steve laughs when he's supposed to, and tries to keep breathing. The Cyclone won't actually kill him, right? Thousands have people have paid to terrify themselves out of their wits, so surely Steve isn't going to be the one to break the winning streak, right?
Right?
They finally get on, and it's the two most terrifying and exhilarating minutes of Steve's life.
The ride clacks loudly as the train is pulled to the top of the hill, and Bucky laces their fingers together. "I got you, Stevie, I'm right here. Breathe, okay? It'll be just fine. It might even be fun." There's that smile again, wicked in ways that makes Steve's stomach twist again, this time with heat.
Steve just glares at him, and Bucky tries to hide a smile. "You owe me," he threatens, and Bucky just nods as they reach the peak of the hill.
For an instant, everything is lovely. The ocean and Brooklyn are spread out around him in all directions, endless, everything Steve's ever known painted on an enormous canvas that reaches out to touch the sky. From here, even the clouds seem close. Their cart draws closer over the edge of the top of the Cyclone, and Steve cannot breathe for a long moment as Bucky turns to him, perfectly edged in sunlight with the sky matching his eyes and Steve's free hand itches for a paintbrush and then -
They fall.
He shrieks as he falls, wind whipping through his hair, and Bucky's gripping his hand tight, tight, tight, and Steve can't feel his fingers anymore. Their bodies wrench around hard corners, plummet several more times, and Steve's whole body feels light as air and wild. He can hear Bucky screaming in delight too, until they finally roll to a breathless stop, still clinging to each other.
Steve's whole body is trembling from fear and excitement, his knees dangerously weak. He staggers out of the car and down the steps to leave, concentrating on one foot in front of the other. Dimly, he registers Bucky say something but his ears are roaring. He all but falls onto a trashcan and vomits spectacularly.
A few moments later, Steve opens his eyes to find Bucky's hands warm around his waist and stroking back his hair. Steve spits a few more times, feeling better, but his limbs are all loose and shaky. He turns, and Bucky's face is white, his blue eyes wide, and his grip tightens around Steve's waist as Steve rises to his feet.
"That," Steve announces in a voice that's muffled by the ringing in his ears still, "was amazing." His body considers passing out as a stamp of approval, but Steve locks his knees and breathes through it.
All the color rushes back into Bucky's cheeks, and he breaks into a slightly hysterical chuckle. "I thought you were going to keel over and die! All I could think was that I'd killed my best friend!" he wheezes, covering his face as he laughs. Steve's giggles are a little crazed too, but they're both allowed to be a little punch-drunk after that experience. They're arm in arm as they weave their way through the crowds, not entirely balanced, breaking into helpless chuckles every so often as they catch each other's eye.
Bucky finds them a park bench and instructs Steve to sit still and recover while Bucky gets them some lemonade. Steve takes nice, long breaths, keeping his tight lungs from pushing him into an asthma attack. Slowly, his shaking subsides, and he's just left with the slightly faint, befuddled exhaustion that comes after an adrenaline rush.
Bucky brings back a lemonade for each of them and they relax for a little while, slowly calming, until Steve finally murmurs, "You definitely owe me two for that."
A huff of warm laughter, and Bucky knocks their shoulders together. "You bet your ass I do," he agrees, tilting back the lemonade. A drop of it spills from the corner of his mouth, and Steve watches it trace a path to Bucky's collar before disappearing. Steve forces his gaze back to his own lemonade and sighs. "What else have you got planned?" They have to move, or Steve is going to lick that sweet-sour drop away and he'll lose everything.
From there it's the carousel, then some of the penny games, where Bucky wins them both sweets, and there's a few buskers performing that they admire, including one who pulls a handful of beans from behind Steve's ear when Bucky volunteers him for the task, to the crowd's delight. They wander back to the beach when they get too hot, and threaten to dunk each other again, staining their clothes more heavily with salt before they stumble out, the water glistening on their skin. They even decide they can afford some dinner, and find a cheap diner where they get burgers and fries with milkshakes before they return to the bustling crowds to make their way to the Wonder Wheel, their last stop before they head home.
"I wish I'd thought to bring my sketchbook," Steve whispers as the big wheel raises their car to the top. Another couple is in the car with them, murmuring sweet nothings and stealing kisses while Steve tries not to climb inside Bucky's skin. He hates them, just a little. He could stand rejection, he thinks, but he can't stand putting Bucky in danger. "It's gorgeous up here. I saw it, for an instant, when we were at the top of the Cyclone, but it's nothing like this. This is even higher, and you can see so far..."
Bucky presses close, somehow noticing Steve's shivers from the cool air even before Steve does. "Sorry, I didn't think to bring my jacket. Don't want you catching a cold in the middle of summer. Those are the worst. You're right, though, it's beautiful up here, when everything seems so far away." He immediately eases Steve's chills, and Steve wants to kiss Bucky's soft mouth all over again. This has been an exercise in the most exquisite torture, and Steve wouldn't relinquish it for an instant. Not a single damn instant.
Steve hums. "It's okay, I'm warm enough," he counters, relaxing against Bucky's side while they gaze at the Brooklyn light casting glimmering patterns on the dark, endless expanse of the ocean. "Besides, the ride's almost done." He yawns a little, sudden exhaustion making the lights of the city blur. He yawns again and curls against Bucky's chest, letting the rocking of the car and the whispers of the wind and Bucky's gentle hand in his hair soothe him. "Thanks, Buck, for everything today. This has been the best birthday I've had in years." It hardly even aches that his mom is gone now; Steve knows she's watching over him from Heaven. After all, Steve's already got the world's best guardian angel at his back, and he knows he has her love. If she can't be here, maybe this is enough. Maybe Bucky's steady heartbeat and his endless kindness and his friendship is enough.
They disembark and wander back to the Stillwell Avenue Station slowly. There's no need to hurry, even if they both have work in the morning. This is a celebration, because Steve is going to be eighteen. They haven't spoken the words all day, Bucky hasn't even said, "Happy Birthday" and won't until the 4th, but they don't need to; it's enough that they're both here, both alive and well, both still striving to make more of themselves. Steve hasn't given up, hasn't given in, and Bucky's his guardian angel with a mean left hook, a mind sharper than a steel blade, and a smile sweeter than candy. Steve's not in a hurry to let this moment go.
Soon enough, though, they board the Sea Beach Line, settling into one of the seats. Their stop is 9th street, and from there they'll be home in a matter of minutes.
Steve almost instantly falls asleep, despite his best intentions to stay awake, to prolong this afternoon - evening now - for a few minutes more. Bucky's hair brushes Steve's forehead as the train rocks, and Steve can smell the sand and sun and salt spray, and, just as he'd hoped, the soft woodsy smell of Bucky beneath it all. He drifts, surrounded by that soft scent, and trusts Bucky will have his back.
He doesn't stir until he hears the words, "Canal Street Station," and jerks upright. Rubbing at his eyes to clear away the sleep, he glances around for Bucky.
Bucky, who is still sitting beside him, a rueful smile on his face. "Bucky?" Steve asks uncertainly. "Where are we? I couldn't have heard that right, did I?" He's pretty deaf, but he didn't think he was that deaf, not yet.
"End of the line, pal," Bucky replies, with that same wry smile. "Didn't you hear? Canal Street Station, clear in Manhattan." Steve doesn't know how to respond to that; their stop must have been a dozen stations back.
"Why?" Steve can't think of anything else to say. None of this makes sense. Bucky's soft, sad expression especially doesn't make sense. Steve studies Bucky's face, trying to read the features more familiar than his own, but for once he gleans nothing.
In answer, Bucky pulls Steve to his feet, keeping him close as they leave the train and step onto one on the other rails, headed back towards Coney Island. They're the only one on the railcar. It's pretty late, by now, and the conductor collects their fare when they tell him where they're going. When he's gone again, Steve repeats, "Why?" His voice emerges hushed in the near-silent railway car.
The train rumbles, heading back towards home, and Bucky takes Steve's hand. "You don't sleep well during the winter," he informs Steve, like it's some surprise. "You get too cold too easily, and if you're not sick, you're either recovering from being sick or starting to get sick. Summer's not much better. You get dizzy and nauseated and sometimes it feels like you'll never stop shaking from exhaustion thank to the heat. Spring - well, that's allergy season, and I spend a lot of time wondering if you plan to sneeze your brains out, wondering if this'll be the time when your asthma gets the best of you. Then there's fall, and you get maybe a month of good weather when it's not too summery or too wintery, where you're almost able to keep yourself healthy, and then it starts all over again. That's all without worrying about your spine, your hearing, your eyes, your anemia - all of it."
Steve nods; it's true. His body, frail and finite, fights him every step. "It's been like that forever, though," he points out, still confused.
"You were sleeping."
Steve's lips part.
"You were sleeping comfortably. You weren't wheezing. You weren't coughing. You weren't shivering with cold, or dizzy from heat." Bucky shrugs, unable to meet Steve's eyes. "You were sleeping, curled up against me, trusting me to take care of you. I told myself I'd just go one station too far - what's one stop? A mistake, after a long day, and not a particularly important one. So we'd walk five extra minutes. Not a big deal. You're so warm, though, Stevie, didja know that? So warm, even when you've got nothing left." Bucky's hand reflexively squeezed around Steve's fingers. "Never met anyone with your heart. I don't know how to survive without you anymore, you know that? Why would I want to bother? You're the one that makes me laugh, that knows when I'm hurting, that cooks me my mama's stewed tomatoes cause you know I can't get enough of them. Two stations. Three. And here I am, with the train emptying around me, watching you. I've always been watching you, Stevie, watching you be braver than a lion without a care that you've got a kitten's roar, watching as that heart of yours loves so brightly that it hurts you." Bucky's finger trails over Steve's chest, and Steve can't breathe. "I'm with you until the end of the line, Stevie, and then I'll turn around and do it all over again."
Steve can't breathe, but he'll be damned if he can't move.
So he surges forward, and presses a clumsy kiss to Bucky's mouth. He's been waiting forever, so he doesn't give an inch. He wraps his arms around Bucky's neck, kissing harder. Bucky's mouth stills against Steve's for a moment, but before the fear gains momentum, Bucky is kissing back, gentle and loving and oh so clever. Steve's toes curl with delight.
They break apart a heartbeat later, because this isn't safe - not in the least. In fact, it's one of the stupidest things they've ever done, including the time they tricked the McAllister twins into stealing from Mama Jones. There might be hell to pay someday, maybe even someday soon, but all Steve can think about is the soft, slick heat of Bucky's lips and the fact that for every moment Steve spent watching Bucky and seeing everything that mattered, Bucky's been doing the same thing to him. It makes Steve warm right down to his core, and he settles against Bucky's side again, closing his eyes. There are going to be more kisses. Steve will make sure of it. "Make sure you don't miss our stop, Buck," he instructs, but he has Bucky's hand in his, and his thumb is stroking across Bucky's palm. There's something new and fragile and beautiful beating between them, as beautiful as Brooklyn spread out around them, touching the endless ocean.
"What, and let you fall asleep again, Stevie? Ain't you spoiled enough?" Bucky settles back against the seat, arranging his body so that Steve can rest comfortably against him. Steve shamelessly takes every advantage, because he can, because he can touch and taste and smell and feel.
He can watch.
He can shelter this new start in the places where their bodies meet, lovely and tender.
Bucky's lips press to the crown of his head, and his fingers cling to Steve's.
They smile.
~*~
A lifetime later, after confessions of love, after entire nights spent touching, after a war and two falls, and after two homecomings that will never stop being bittersweet, there is still Coney Island, still Nathan's Famous, still the Cyclone and the Wonder Wheel, and the sweet-sour taste of lemonade. There are still people on the beaches. There are still buskers performing tricks. There are still prizes to be won at games.
They are still James Buchanan Barnes and Steven Grant Rogers, although they are no longer the two young men discovering their first and most enduring taste of love. There is still the scent of sand, sun, and salt spray on their clothes, and for one of them, at least, the soft scent of woods is now tempered by steel. That's something to hold onto, even when memories fracture beneath the weight of too much time and grief and horror. That's something that cannot be replaced, something to love anew.
They're still learning to fit together, and it's never easy, but they're still trying. They're still fighting for each other. They still watch each other. They're still working to foster something delicate and new in the places where their bodies meet.
They kiss, no longer in a empty railway car but on the beach in the open air, and they smile.
They've reached the end of the line.