Archive of Our Own

July 4, 1923

“Now, just a moment, love.”  Little Stevie Rogers paused in the open door to look back at his Ma, who wagged a wooden spoon at him and asked, “Do you know what today is?”

Squirming where he stood, Stevie asked, “S’it Sunday, Ma?”  He looked down at his playing clothes—changing now seemed like a good way to waste a good morning—and then back at his mother hopefully.

“No,” Ma laughed.  “It’s only Wednesday.  And it’s the Fourth of July.”

“Oh.”  Scuffing his foot on the wooden floor, Stevie asked instead, “’m I in trouble, Ma?”

“Whatever for?” she asked.

Wincing, Stevie said, “I don’ know.”

“No, you’re not in trouble, love.  Although you will be if you let the stray cats in.”  Shutting the door sadly, Stevie turned to face his Ma—you should always look a grownup in the eye when they’re talkin’ to you, Stevie, it’ll make the words stick better—and asked:

“What’m I s’posed to do, Ma?”

“Well,” his Ma said, “you can start by helpin’ me here in the kitchen, that’s what.”

“Mam,” Stevie said, trying to express his disappointment properly.

“No buts,” his Ma said, her voice very firm.  “Unless you don’ want a cake?”

Stevie perked up.  “Cake, Ma?”  When she nodded, smiling a little smile, he hurried over.  Leaning up on tiptoe to see what she was mixing in the bowl, he insisted, “For us?”

“And your friends,” Ma said agreeably.

“Oh,” Stevie said, sinking flat on his heels again.  “Ma, I don’ have any friends.”

“Sure you do,” Ma said, in that everything will be all right voice that made everything all right.  “Just go to the yard and ask those boys you like to play with.”

Stevie squirmed.  “I don’ know,” he began.  “They’re not nice.”

“Then ask the girls,” his Ma said.  Stevie looked down at his shoes, ears hot.  “What?  It’s good to have girl friends, they keep your head on straight.”

“They do?” Stevie asked, looking up at her, surprised.

“Mmm-hmm.  All about balance.  Don’t be shy,” she said, again in that firm voice.  “But be nice.  Always be nice.”  She let him hold the bowl with both hands, instructing, “Hold that for me.”  He gripped it tightly.  Measuring out flour, she poured it carefully into the bowl and asked, “Whatever happened to my outgoing little boy, hm?  Doesn’t have any friends.  Nonsense.”

Shuffling on his feet, Stevie said, “They go to school now, Ma.”

“Don’t you worry about that,” his Ma said.  “You will, too.  You’ll learn.  You want to learn, don’t you?”

“Uh-huh,” Stevie mumbled.  School sounded like work.  Work wasn’t fun.  His Ma was good at work, but carrying things, sweeping floors, it hurt his hands.  Shuffling on his feet, he let out a breath when his Ma finally took the bowl and set it down.

“What was that, lamb?”

“I’ll learn,” Stevie said, looking up at her and nodding to show he was listening.

“That’s my Stevie,” his Ma said, brushing his hair down and adding, “Dusty.  Where do you get all this dust?”  She started to brush the dust away, but he scrunched up his nose and stepped out of reach.  “All right.  Go on.  But be back in an hour,” she told him, leaning down to kiss the top of his head.

He was back in an hour, with Wally, the shiest kid on the yard, in tow.  “Ma,” Stevie announced, then: “Mam!”

“There’s a note,” Wally said, pointing to the piece of paper on the little table near the radio, almost hiding behind Stevie.

“Oh,” Stevie said, sad but not showing it as he said, “That means she’s gone.”  Tugging on Wally’s sleeve, he led the other boy into the kitchen, where a fresh cake awaited.  His belly felt full of warmth, and he told Wally happily, “S’okay, we can have some.”

“You sure?” Wally asked, licking his lips anyway as Stevie set the cake on the table and nodded.

“Uh-huh.”  They clumsily carved off a couple slices, then sat on the porch to eat them, listening to thunder growl.

“Scary, isn’t it?” Stevie said, proud of his bravery for not running away, kicking one foot.

“Uh-huh,” Wally said, still nibbling on his cake.  Two years older, Wally was skinny like him, got picked on.  He seemed nervous, most of the time.  He looked around and said, “I should go soon.”

“You could stay,” Stevie offered.

Shaking his head, Wally said, “No, I have to go.”  But he finished his cake, and said, “I like cake.”

“Me, too,” Stevie said happily.  “Ma makes the best cake.”

“Can I come back?” Wally asked hopefully.

Surprised, Stevie said, “If you wanna.”  Shrugging, he said, “Maybe.  I have to ask Ma.”  Then, nodding, he said, “You got any brothers?”

“Sister.”

“What’s her name?”

“Bella.”

“S’a nice name,” Stevie said, still kicking his foot, scrunching down when thunder rumbled louder.  “Gonna rain soon.  Should go.”

“Yeah,” Wally said, still sitting next to him.  “You have any sisters?”

“No,” Stevie said.  “Just me and Mam.”

“I have a Dad,” Wally said, looking at him curiously.  “Where’s your Dad?”

“He died,” Stevie said, shrugging.

“Oh,” Wally said.  “Really?”

“Uh-huh.”

“How’d he die?”

“Don’ know,” Stevie said.  “Ma says ‘don’t ask.’”

“Why not?”

“Don’ know,” Stevie repeated.  “Don’ need a Dad, anyway.  I got Mom.”

Wally stood up, saying again, “I oughtta go.”

Stevie nodded, kicking his foot again and telling him, “You can come back, ‘f you like.”

“Okay,” Wally said, and left.

Stevie never saw him again, but it was pretty neat, having a friend.  Be fun to have a lot of friends, little Stevie Rogers thought, sitting on the porch and kicking his feet again, even though it was raining and the roof leaked a lot, because sitting outside was always better than sitting inside.

He waited for her, hoping it wouldn’t be a long night, but his Ma didn’t come back ‘til after dark.  Curled up under a blanket on the couch, he scrunched into a smaller ball when she brushed his hair aside before kissing his head, telling him, “Happy birthday, love.”

. o .

July 4, 1924

“Ma,” Stevie said, standing near the foot of her bed and clutching a blanket to his hurting neck.  “Mam.”  He wanted to cry, but crying seemed like too much work, so he just said a third time, “Ma.”

“Stevie?” his Ma sighed, and he felt all the bad fear inside him go away as she finally sat up and looked at him.  “Oh, mo stoirín,” she said, holding out her arms.  Blanket in hand, he stepped into them, hiding his face in her neck and shoulder.  “What’s wrong?” she said, her voice low and soft, like the blanket.

“Hurts,” he said.  “’m hot.”

“Oh, my darling,” she said, one hand around the back of his head, sifting through his hair, prickly like straw.  “Come here,” she said, curving her arm around him and pulling him into bed.  “It’ll be all right,” she promised, and he knew it would be—she never lied, she’d never lie to him.

“Hurts,” he still said, his voice scratchy, painful.

“I know.  I know.”  He curled up against her because she was warm, and even though he was too hot, she was his Mom.  She’d keep him safe.  “It’s all right, love.”

In retrospect, that was the year it all went wrong for little Stevie Rogers.  “It’ll be all right,” his Ma assured as he burned from the inside-out, squirming in unhappiness.  The itching got worse, but no matter how much he tried to scratch it—and his Ma wouldn’t let him, holding his hands and telling him, “No, my darling,” or “No, mo stoirín,” so he wouldn't forget—it wouldn’t go away.  He’d been sick before, but he’d never felt scared of how bad he felt, before.

“Ma,” he said, afraid, “Ma.”

Every time, she promised him he’d be all right, and he believed her.  She brought him soup instead of cake, and he didn’t want to eat, but eating was better than being hungry and scared.  Being hungry and scared was overwhelming.  He could be one or the other, but not both.

Then he threw up, and he was hungry and scared again.

. o .

July 4, 1925

Wandering the streets of New York City, little Stevie Rogers thought, Just three more blocks.

His chest was getting really tight, but it wasn’t far to the little place he and his Mam called home.  The last thing he needed was to be seen as weak, so he pulled himself up by his bootstraps and ran.  Except then his chest was so tight he really couldn’t breathe, and he thought, Bad, bad, bad, even as he stumbled to the porch.  Bad.

He collapsed on the steps and tried to suck down a breath, holding his shirt tightly in a hand.  I can do this, he thought, even though he tried again and couldn’t get anything past his throat, wanting to scream in the bad feeling, the fear.  I can do this.  Hunching on the steps, he felt the heat in his face, the pain in his chest, and knew he couldn’t quit, he was so thirsty for air, but there was nothing he could do—

Finally, he caught a tiny breath, hope.  He latched onto it, breathing as quickly as he could, little gasps that seemed to make his sight darker and his lungs feel even less full.  Ignoring the tears on his face, he forced down a deep breath, swallowing it, and pushed himself off the steps, hurrying the rest of the way inside.  He flung himself onto the couch, buried his face in a pillow, and breathed it in, and somehow it made breathing seem easier.

Heart beating very fast, he forced himself to roll onto his side, trying to make it hurt less.  He thought, Ma, but she had to work.  She wasn’t around.  I can do this, he thought, face scrunched up in pain as he finally caught his breath but his heart kept beating too fast.  I can do this.

Ma was almost as tired as he was when she came home.  “Stevie?” she asked.  He didn’t move, curled up on the couch, facing the back, and her voice was high and scared as she said quickly, “Stevie?”

“Wha’?” he mumbled, heard her exhale deeply.  Her hand pet down his side once, heavy, warm.  It was nice.  Gone a moment later.

“Not having a good day, love?” she asked.

He said, “Tired.”  He was.  But he didn’t want to sleep—he wanted her there, to tell him it would be all right.  So it would be.

“It’s all right, lamb,” she said.  “Just sorry it has to be on your birthday.”

He asked the couch, “S’that mean cake?”

He could hear the quiet laughter in her voice as she said, “Oh, of course it does, love.  Of course it does.”

He stayed where he was while she baked, happy and tired.

Then he felt bad, his Ma working so hard while he just laid on the couch, so he pushed himself to his feet, and picked each step to the kitchen, his heart still hurt but his legs steady.  “Can I help?” he asked.

“Sure,” she said easily.  She picked him up, set him on the counter—not s’posed to be on the counter, Ma, he thought, but he was too busy being fascinated by the opportunity to say it—and then offered him a wooden spoon, sliding the bowl to him and instructing, “Stir.”

He could do that.  “Like this?” he said, scrunching up his face when he spilled the flour at once.  “Sorry.”

“S’okay.  Everyone’s got to learn,” she said, guiding the spoon at a slow but steady pace.  “There.  Just like that.”

“Got it,” he told her.

She let him lick the spoon when the cake was in the oven, telling him, “You’re a strong one.  One spoon won’t hurt,” she said, winking, like it was a secret.

I’m a strong one, seven-year-old Stevie Rogers thought, proud of it, puffing up his broken chest.  I’m a strong one.

. o .

July 4, 1929

“Stevie, is that you?”            

“Uh.”  Holding a hand to his bleeding nose, eleven-year-old Steve Rogers replied, “No, Ma!”  Dancing in place for a moment, he darted to the bathroom and shut the door, turning the sink on full blast and yelping as he soaked his front in cold water.  Turning the handle to decrease the pressure, he scrubbed the blood from his face.

A knock came at the door, and he jammed a foot against it just to make sure it stayed shut.  “Occupied!”

“What on Earth happened?” she asked.

“Thought you worked the day shift!” Steve replied, pinching his nose to try to stop the bleeding.

“Seems we both had surprises,” his mother drawled.  “Open the door.”

“Gee, Ma,” Steve muttered, nose still clamped shut.  “In a minute.”  His voice sounded very thick, and the taste of pennies was still at the back of his mouth.  Yuck.

He slid his foot away without meaning to and the door opened.  “Oh, Steven.”

“S’okay,” he muttered, washing away the fresh blood.  “Just—”

“Just what?” she prompted, dampening the hand towel and brushing at his face.

“Ma,” he protested.  “I can do it myself, ‘m—ow,” he whined, not proud of it, as she pressed it against his nose directly.  “That hurts.”

“It’s broken,” his Ma said.  “The question—”

“Ma,” he pleaded, and she let him have the towel, letting out a breath of relief that almost turned into a wrong gulp of air.  Setting the towel in the sink, he sighed, “It wasn’ my fault, they were pickin’ on this girl.”

Eyes going softer, his Ma said, “Oh?”

“Yeah,” he sighed, scrubbing his sleeve under his wet nose, not caring about the results.  “She didn’t wanna go with him, so I told ‘em to—”  Looking at her, wide-eyed at the near-miss (Why don’t you guys fuck off?), he said simply, “I told ‘em to go away.”

“Did you,” his Ma said.  He nodded, looking down so she couldn’t see the little white lie.  He had told them to go away.  “And?” she prompted.

He shrugged, waving at his face.  “They did.”  He grinned.

She said grimly, “Rinse.”  He did, and winced at the red water.

“’m like a stuck pig,” he said.

“No,” she sighed.  “You’re just a very troublesome boy.”

“’m not trouble,” Steve muttered.

“The whole face will be blue tomorrow,” his Ma prophesized.  “Good heavens, Steven.”

“I’d do it again,” Steve insisted.

“No, you won’t,” his Ma said firmly.  “Don’t go putting your nose in other people’s business.”  He looked at her, disappointed and mad, but she qualified firmly, “Unless you have to.  Then make it count.”

He grinned, and she didn’t tell him to rinse again, so the blood must not have been in his teeth as much.  “I’ll make you so proud, Ma,” he vowed.

“You’re lucky it’s your birthday,” she said, shaking her head and stepping out of the little room.  “Come along.  I’ve eaten the entire cake, but there may be crumbs.”

“Thanks, Ma,” he said seriously.

“You’re a love, Steve.  Even when you’re a terror.”

. o .

July 4, 1930

“We’ll be all right,” his Ma said. 

“Ma,” he pleaded, feeling sick as he looked at the cake on the little table.  “You shouldn’t have.”

“Well,” his Ma said, prim and stubborn, just like him, both of them in their finest dress and staring at the little cake that had appeared in their little kitchen.  “I couldn’t not celebrate my only son’s birthday, what kind of mother would that make me?”

Shutting his eyes, Steve said, “It’s real sweet of you, Ma.”

“Only the best for my best,” his Ma said affectionately, real pride in her eyes as she said, “You’re a growing man.  You need it.”

Shaking his head, Steve looked her in the eye and promised, “I’ll make you proud, Ma.”

“You always do, love.”

. o .

July 4, 1931

It was the first year without a cake.  “Thank you,” Steve said, near tears.

His Ma held him in the little kitchen, kissed his forehead, and said simply, “Best for my best.  You’ll always be my heart, cake or not.”

“Thank you,” he repeated, hiding his face in her shoulder so his tears wouldn’t show.

. o .

July 4, 1932

“Your family,” began Steve Rogers, thirteen, resisting the urge to wince, “is terrifying.”

“Loud,” Bucky corrected, speaking loud enough to be heard over the chainsaw that was the Barnes clan congregating in a living room for a fireside chat before dinner.  “Very loud.  What about you?”

“Quiet,” he replied, oxymoronically loudly.

“No, I asked about your family,” Bucky corrected with an elbow to the gut, winking at him.  “I know what you’re like.  Never heard a mouse squeak like that, had to check it out.”

Making a disgruntled noise, glad the Barnes clan was too absorbed in the Fourth of July celebration to pay attention to two street rats, Steve uttered, a bit under his breath, “I don’t squeak.”  Bucky dug his elbow in his gut and Steve shoved him back.  “Cut it out.”

“Feisty,” Bucky drawled.  “You know, most people, when they’re getting the sh—stuffing knocked outta them, they cower.  Like a bear attack.  S’what I bore witness to—that’s why you cower, Stevie.”

“This may come as a shock, Bucky,” Steve grumbled, resisting the urge to push his arm off his shoulders.  “Those of us with a pulse don’t lie down to be buried.”

“S’what I like about you,” Bucky drawled.  “I need a bit more excitement in my life.”  Gesturing at the room, he added, “Look at this.  It’s practically a goddamn funeral home in here.”

“Watch your mouth!” barked the senior-most Barnes, commanding a chair and glaring witheringly at the boys.  Even Steve shrank back.

Bucky just tossed him a salute, then mouthed off, “Sure thing, Pops.  That’s Pops,” he added to Steve.  “And my sister, Becca, and my Aunt Susan, and my—”

Tuning out the noise, Steve sighed deeply as he finally shut the door behind him to his own quiet apartment.  “Ma,” he called out.  “Bless your heart!”

She didn’t respond—he saw the note a moment later—but even as he dropped his shoulders and blew out a tight, tired breath, he laughed, “The American dream!  I’m never having kids, Ma!  I want this quiet for good!”

Sinking onto the couch, he basked in it, and wondered if perhaps having friends wasn’t a bit crazy.

. o .

July 4, 1933

“One day,” his Ma said, the two of them eating prune pudding, a rare delicacy when two meals a day was the norm and dessert was unheard of—but fourteen-year-old Steve Rogers had had such a day, getting his ass handed to him by his newest boss, a real tough guy whose wife wasn’ doin’ so hot, cancer was back, so the new guy got the stick, and now Steve was more than willing to splurge on a few bites of something that wasn’t boiled carrots—“one day, this will be over.”

Suddenly exhausted, Steve scarfed down the rest of the pudding, announced, “I’m headin’ out,” and, at her disappointed look, reminded, “It’s only eight.  Night shift’s barely gotten started.”

“You’ll catch your death out there,” she warned.

He smiled very, very grimly.  “Or in here?” he said, which put a pain he could not take away from her eyes, even though he said, immediate and soft, “I’m sorry.”  She looked away, silent, and that hurt more.  “I’m sorry, Ma.  I didn’t mean it.”

“I know,” she said, eating another spoonful carefully.  “Go on, then.”

“Ma—”

“Go on,” she repeated.

He wanted to fall to his knees and beg forgiveness.  He wanted to cry.  His chest felt tight with the memory of the look in his new boss’ eyes, the ragged, terrified look of a man who was losing something precious and had to whip everything else into a frenzy to stop feelin’ it.  Even the bruises on Steve’s back didn’t hurt so much, not half as much as that look.  “We’re gonna be okay, Ma,” he told her quietly.

Her hand shook and then she set her spoon down.  “Of course we are,” she said, simple and stern, like there was never any doubt.  “We always are.”  Looking at him, giving him a once-over, she mused, “He would have liked to have met you.”

It was Steve’s turn to feel tight-throated.  It only got worse when she added, “He wanted a boy.  A little Stevie.  It was his choice.”  She stood up, went to her room, and returned with a letter.  “See,” she said, sliding it out of the already-open envelope, indicating a line of ink on faded yellow paper.  “If it’s a girl, Sarah, like my darling wife.  And if it’s a boy—Steven.  I pray for a boy.”  She passed him the letter.

He stared at it, reading the words, memorizing the words.  Looking up at her, he said softly, “I wish I coulda known him.”

“He was a very strong man,” agreed his Ma.  He saw, just for a moment, a longing for that strength as she added, “The War needed his strength.”

Gently, he set the letter aside.  Then, wrapping his arms around her shoulders, pressing his cheek against the top of her head, he said, “I love you, Ma.”  I’ll make you so damn proud, he couldn’t say, vowing to get them through this.

“I love you, too, my darling,” she said, squeezing his arm.  “You always make me proud.”

. o .

July 4, 1934

Skinny as he would ever be in his life and two inches shorter than half the dames his age, Steve thought grimly, Maybe I shoulda taken those birthday wishes more seriously.  He stared at the flickering candle, wondering about how macabre it was to begin a new year by extinguishing a light, and wished quietly, I wish for peace. 

He blew it out, not caring that he’d stopped asking God to answer His door or believed that times would ever change three years ago.  He didn’t know if it even counted without the cake, but the lone candle was the best he could do.  They couldn’t afford such frivolities when the margins were razor-thin, and Ma was working and he was doing his damnedest to work half as hard as she did all her life.

But it was so damned hard to find work, and hard to work well when he found it, starving himself for a job and starving himself out of it.  For a moment, he was furious at himself, absolutely livid for thinking such a menial thing even mattered when the whole country was shaking, desperate to stay on its feet, amid the upheaval of a lifetime.

Rise up.  Take heart.  Keep on, he thought.  It was its own motto, to keep going when the going went beyond tough, when it ventured into unendurable.

Keep on.  Take heart.  Rise up.

Staying down was where it all fell down.  He picked up the burnt candle, pocketed it, and told himself, I’ll be stronger.

. o .

July 4, 1935

“Happy BIRTHDAY dear STEVIE, happy BIRTHDAY to YOU!  Yay!!”  Bucky Barnes clapped both hands on his shoulders and shook him hard enough to rattle his bones.  “Now hurry up and make a wish!  We want CAKE!”

“Leave him alone, Buck,” Becca said.

“Je-Je-s-s-sus C-Christ,” Steve rattled, finally twisting around to punch Bucky in the gut as he kept rattling the chair in anticipation.  “Do you want cake or—Bucky!”

Having blown out the candles, Bucky whooped loudly and said cheerfully, “Don’t worry, I just wished my kid-sister would go away so we could have more cake.  Yay!!”

“Well, you know the rules, now it won’t come true,” Becca sniffed, sticking out her tongue.

“MOM!  BECCA’S BEING GROSS!” Bucky bawled.  “I SAW TONGUE!”

“Oh my God,” Steve said, covering his face with a hand.

Pops Barnes clocked Bucky on the back of the head with his newspaper.  “Quit your hollerin’ and cut the damn cake!”

“Fine, but then we’re going to see the new movie, and you can’t come,” he said, pointing at Becca, who sniffed:

“Who said I want to?”

“You can come, if you want,” Steve offered graciously, yelping as Bucky thunked him on the top of the head with a closed fist.  “Tryin’ to take me to the streets, Buck, swear to God—”

“Really?” Becca asked, looking at him, starstruck.  “Can I?”

“No,” Bucky snapped, covering Steve’s mouth with a hand for good measure.  “No kid-sisters allowed.”

“Oh, take her with you,” Pops Barnes grumbled, sliding the cake towards himself and picking up the knife.  Having fought in the War, he had unsteady hands, and he announced, “You take what you get and you’ll like it,” as he carved out the most raggedy square-shaped slices of cake Steve had ever seen.  “Kids these days,” he uttered, shaking his head.

. o .

July 4, 1936

“Happy birthday, my heart.”

“Thanks, Ma.”  Looking down at the package, neatly wrapped in paper, Steve asked seriously, “You sure about—”

“Oh, indulge me,” his Ma said, smiling at him.  She’d been fighting a cold—summer colds; he nodded sympathetically, and hugged her more, and refused to hear of it that he’d get sick, because he had a strong heart, a stronger will, and he’d deal with it if it came—and he wished a candle could undo the weariness in her smile as she added, “Go on, love.”

Carefully peeling it open—heart beating fast in anticipation, a rare gift—he laughed in soft delight at the notebook that fell out of it.  “Ma,” he began.  “You didn’t have—”

“Of course I did,” she interjected, smiling with closed eyes as he kissed her temple. 

“Thank you,” he told her, resisting the urge to hug the book to his chest, and then doing it, anyway.  “This is—”

“Best for my best,” she said simply.  “Happy birthday, love.”

“Thank you,” he repeated, honestly speechless, floored in the best way.

A gift, and a cake.  The world was lookin’ up.

. o .

July 4, 1937

A firm set of knocks came at the door.  One, two, three.  Steve thought of the guy chucking a brick at his back because Steve wasn’t working hard enough to kill the cancer in his wife’s lungs and thought about ignoring it.  He got up slowly.  The floorboards creaked.

“Found the key,” Bucky drawled, waving it, before handing it over.  Steve took it in numb hands.  “Y’okay, pal?”

Steve blinked at him, stepping back to let him in mutely.  He didn’t feel like . . . talkin’.  Explainin’.  There’s gotta be a note somewhere.  If I wait long enough, she’ll come home.  She was just sick.  It was just a cold.  “How’re you, Buck?” he asked, his voice unexpectedly robust, normal.

“Oh, I’m swell,” Bucky said, looking around scrutinizingly.  “Just been wonderin’ what you were up to on this most special day.  Not much?”

“Not much,” Steve echoed.  He had a seat on the couch.  His chest felt tight.  “There’s no cake.”

“Aw, that’s a shame,” Bucky said.

“You can go, now,” Steve told him.

Bucky shrugged, then sat on the couch next to him, too close, their legs touching.  Steve grimaced.  He hadn’t touched a human being since the funeral, three months ago.  He got up, but Bucky dragged him back down, one-armed, and insisted, “Okay, talk.”

“Don’t make me hurt you,” he told Bucky, voice stone-cold serious.  Bucky had six inches on him.  Bucky was probably still growing, if he was lucky.  Bucky was always lucky, but Steve Rogers—

He swallowed hard, swallowed the anger, wondered if he looked like he had a brick in his hand and wanted somebody to give him an excuse to throw it.

Hunching forward, burying his face in his hands, he uttered in abject horror, “She’s dead.”

Bucky’s big hand settled on his back, not one iota like his Ma’s, small, warm, comforting.  He shivered once convulsively.  Bucky said, “I’m sorry, pal.”

“No, you’re not.”  He spat the words onto the floor, dug both hands into his hair, and tried not to scream.  Screaming would cause trouble.  He still had neighbors.

To hell with it.  He said, “She’s dead,” and, when the crushing noise rose in his throat, he covered his mouth with a hand and wailed, caving inward, trying to make it even smaller and only seeming to make it sink deeper into his bones.

Talky Bucky with his dumb mouth and big dumb happy family didn’t say a damn thing.

When Steve started sobbing, he just said, “I’m sorry, pal.”

And Steve was, too.  Steve was, too.

. o .

July 4, 1938

“You know, two rogues, against the world, we could be entrepreneurs,” Bucky drawled.  “Look’at that Stark guy.  He’s making millions.  Millions.  Came from nothing.”

“He’s a scammer,” Steve dismissed, giving up on shrugging out from under his arm.  “Can you quit holdin’ so tight?  People’ll think I’m your girl.”

“One ugly girl,” Bucky laughed, bringing him in close to ruffle his hair before letting go.  “I just think you deserve it.  It’s your birthday, after all.  Another year older.  Who knows, one of these days, that growth spurt hits, I could be your shoulder,” he teased, leaning into Steve, his bulk stifling.  Steve groaned.

“Don’t know why I hang out with you sometimes, Buck.”

“You’d be lonely as a sinner in church without me,” Bucky said cheerfully.

“Mm,” Steve replied, sitting at a table and batting Bucky’s hand away when he tried to steal his milkshake.  “Christ, get laid.  Leave me alone.”

“What?  I have to keep sharp,” Bucky said, slurping his own milkshake noisily, making Steve wince.  A pair of pretty girls at the bar looked over and Bucky winked, and both girls promptly giggled.  Steve tried to sink to the floor.  Bucky pinned him to the booth.  “No, hey, I have an idea.”

“Uh-uh,” Steve said at once.  “Bad idea.  Hate it.”

“Oh come on, you’re adorable,” Bucky teased, pinching his cheek.  Steve elbowed him in the gut.  Bucky wheezed, “And feisty.  Chicks dig it.”

“I hate you.  No.  You get ‘em, I’m leavin’.”

“All right,” Bucky said with a breezy shrug.

Slightly hurt at being brushed off but unwilling to argue, Steve shrugged, “Fine.”

Which was how, walking down the street, he heard two giggles and then Bucky call out, “Hey, there he is!  Gave you a head start and everything.”

He had an arm around both girls, but he let Dorothy free, and she curved an arm around Steve’s.  “I heard you’re an artist,” she preened.

Shooting Bucky a withering glare, Steve mumbled, “Cartoonist.  Uh.  You know.  I make . . . sketches.”

“Ooh,” Dorothy preened.  “That’s wonderful.”

Ears hot, Steve said, “It’s really not.”  Then, because he wasn’t rude to people, wasn’t some sort of curmudgeon, he said, “What do you do?”

“Well, I like to be drawn,” Dorothy said, laughing as his entire face turned hot.  “I also like the theatre.”

“R-really,” he said, pulling over so he didn’t accidentally have a goddamn asthma attack while talking to a woman that wasn’t Bucky’s sister or his own mother.  “That’s neat.”

“It is,” Dorothy purred.

Bucky and the other dame laughed at something, and Bucky said, “Hey, there’s a show playing tonight, isn’t there?”

Steve wanted to plead, Bucky, I just wanna go home.

But it was . . . it was kind of nice, to have somebody on his arm, and he told her, “Would you—would you like that?”

“An evening with two gentlemen?  I’d love it,” Dorothy preened.

“Wonderful,” Steve said, and, again, to emphasize the emotion and ensure it was the one on his you look like somebody ran over your foot, Stevie, would a smile kill you? face, he repeated, “Wonderful.”

It was.  It really was.  And when they all parted ways, Bucky told him, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you happy before.”

Steve just said, “Women are really great.”

Bucky laughed and slung an arm around his shoulders again to walk him home.  “Now you get it.  Also, I like Ruth, we’re definitely seeing those girls again.”

. o .

July 4, 1939

“You know, I feel good, Buck,” Steve said, pleasantly buzzed and lounging on the floor of his apartment, his sketchbook beside him for inspiration.  “I feel like the future’s lookin’ up.”

“That’s the alcohol,” Bucky said, shaking his head in amusement.  “You’re such a Puritan.”

Flipping him off, Steve said, “Should kick your ass for that.”  Then, slumping until he was lying flat on his back on the floor, he folded his arms behind his head and asked, “Whatcha gonna do, Buck?”

“Chase women,” Bucky said cheerfully, catching Steve’s foot when he tried to kick him and chucking his leg back to the side.  “Nice try.  No, I’m going to absolutely chase women ‘til the day I die—”

“C’mon, Buck,” Steve said, turning to look at him.  “Be real with me.”

“I am.  It’s my heart’s deepest desire.”

“You’re such an ass.”

“Takes one to know one, Stevie.”

Kicking at him again—successfully, this time—Steve drawled, “Why’d I let you stay, huh?”

“Booze and women,” Bucky said with a cheerful laugh, snatching the bottle from him.  “Save some for the poor.”

“I am poor,” Steve drawled, proud of it, puffing out his chest.  “Fuck you.”

“Ooh.  Excuse me, Your Majesty.”

“This is great,” Steve sighed.  “Let’s just do this every night.  Forget work.”

“Wait ‘til tomorrow,” Bucky said cheerfully.  “The hangover sets you straight.”

“Fuck tomorrow,” Steve said, pawing for the bottle.  “And give me that.  It’s my birthday.  My booze.”

“No, it’s our booze.  You can have the hangover,” Bucky said, passing him the bottle.

“Best pal a guy could ever ask for, Buck,” Steve said seriously.

“Don’t get soft on me, I’ll throw up,” Bucky drawled.  “You’re a punk and you know it.”

“Yeah?  Jerk.”

. o .

July 4, 1940

“Well,” Bucky said, flapping the newspaper down grimly, “least ol’ FDR knows how to keep his nose outta—”

“S’only a matter of time,” Steve said, sitting on the porch next to him grimly.  “You hear what’s happenin’ over there?”

Gaze very dark, Bucky said, “Don’t say that.  You don’t want any part of that.  I don’t want any part of that.  I pray it all ends tomorrow.  Don’t know what the hell the world is coming to, but I don’t like it, Stevie.”

“When’d we ever let that stop us, Buck?” Steve said, reaching out to jostle his knee.  “Buck up.”

“Ha-ha,” Bucky deadpanned.  “You know, liquor changed you.  You used to be terrified.  All that liquid courage is going to your head.  This,” he said, pressing the newspaper into Steve’s hands, “this is War, Steve.  Pray to God it doesn’t come our way.”

“Gotta be ready if it does,” Steve said, looking down at the articles grimly.  “Gotta be ready.  No choice, Bucky—when the bugle sounds, you gonna run, or you gonna run towards it?”

“Sounds like a lotta runnin’,” Bucky grumbled.  “Me, I’d rather sit back and watch.  And you?”

Steve folded the paper up neatly.  “’f I have to.  I’m not gonna sit and watch.  If it comes to it—” he passed the newspaper back to Bucky, “count me in.”  Standing, he added briskly, “C’mon.  Gotta enjoy life while we still can.”

“God, you’re grim,” Bucky drawled, but he tossed the newspaper on the step and followed.  “What next, you’re gonna tell me your birthday was January fourth this whole time?”

“I just really love my country,” Steve said, smirking.  “Well.  My parents did.”  Grimly, he added, “Least I can do for them, honestly.”

“You are one crazy sonuvabitch,” Bucky said, slinging an arm around his shoulders and shaking his head.  “Wishin’ for a War.”

“Just ready for it.”

. o .

July 4, 1941

Steve Rogers laid in bed, gasping for breath.

“Try this,” Bucky offered, low and serious, and Steve almost died on a cigarette on his birthday, and then the nicotine hit and he didn’t care.

“Real pal, Buck,” he rasped, sitting out in the fresh air at night because nobody wanted cig smoke in their sheets.

Bucky shrugged, lighting up a cig next to him and saying around it, “Keeps me calm.  This War—nuts.  Haven’t we been through enough?  Didn’t we just get outta hell?”  Shaking, he ran a hand through his hair and said, “I wish I had half your courage, Stevie, because—fuck.  I don’t wanna leave my Mom and Pops and sister to get shot in a trench.”

Steve looked at him in the darkness, hunched and scared shitless, and told him, “I’ll be with you.”  Bucky looked at him, blinked once in surprise, then, without even a once-over, grinned stiffly.  “I don’t care what it takes, Bucky.  If it comes to that—I’ll be there.”

“God, I wish I had your courage,” Bucky said, hand shaking a lot as he puffed on the cigarette once.

Steve rested a hand on his knee, squeezed it.  Bucky crushed his bony hand, but he didn’t care.  It was warm.  They both needed it.  “I’m with you, Buck,” he promised.

“How far?” Bucky asked, not looking at him, grinding his bones.  “To the docks?  To the Fro—”

“To the end of the line,” Steve said simply.

Bucky blew out a hard breath.  He hiccupped, once.  Then he nodded, drew on the cigarette, and said around the smoke, “I’ll hold you to that.”

“Count on it,” Steve said grimly.

“Happy birthday, Stevie,” Bucky added numbly.

Steve squeezed his knee.  “Thanks, Buck.”

. o .

July 4, 1942

“Cheers.”

Grimly, Steve clicked his bottle against Bucky’s.  “To the victors.”

“To the Allies,” Bucky huffed, nervously drinking more than he should, shivering once as he set the bottle down.  “Christ, get your head on straight.  Nobody wants a—”

“You know what I meant,” Steve said in a low voice, sitting on the hardwood floor next to him and resting a firm hand on his knee.  “S’gonna be okay, Buck.  I promise.”

. o .

July 4, 1943

“Thanks, Cap,” the nurse said, taping off the mark on the crook of his elbow.  “This helps,” he added, waving the red vial of blood demonstratively.

Steve rolled down his sleeve mutely.  “Anything else?”

“Nope, that does it,” the nurse said, looking between him and the vials before nodding.  “You’re dismissed.”

Steve returned to his bunk.  One hour later, there was a knock on the door.  He sat up straight, expecting Colonel Phillips or another doctor.  A painful part of him still expected Erskine.  None of the above—“Ms. Carter.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sakes,” Ms. Carter said.  “It’s Peggy.  Mr. Rogers.”

“It’s Captain, Peggy,” Steve said, fighting a smile.  It must have shown anyway, because she rolled her eyes and said:

“You are positively criminal.  Come with me.”

“Pardon?”

“You heard me,” she said, already walking away.

Frowning and setting his tactical manual aside, he stood and told her, “You know, I do have home—”

“You’re incorrigible,” she cut him off, stepping through the door.

Hastening to catch up without jogging—surprised how little effort it took to do so in this outsized, powerful body—he asked her, “Is this about—”

“No,” she cut in.  “Be quiet.”

Shutting his mouth, he obliged for exactly ten steps before asking, softly, “Am I in trouble?”

“No, you’re an idiot,” she told him primly.  He smiled again, the same helpless smile that was very hard to repress, and she took one look at him, straightened his shirt, and told him, “What’s that?”

He looked at the tape and shrugged.  “Blood draw.”

“Horrible.  I hate needles,” she said, dropping the discussion but not without squeezing his hand first.  “Don’t they know you need that?”

“It’s just a little,” he said, still softly, glad that she didn’t seem mad at him for talking as they wandered down the bleak looking hallway.  The bunker was as sterile as a prison.  More sterile—he’d heard stories of prison, and the floors weren’t piss-free there.  “Not that bad.”

“Not that bad, he says,” Peggy sniffed.  “An idiot.  Here we are,” she added suddenly, using a key to enter another door.  Steve blinked in surprise at the little entourage in the otherwise empty mess hall.  “We don’t have fireworks, and they’re not allowed on the premises, anyway,” she said, “but we do have cake, and we are partaking, with or without you.”

Gawking in silent wonder, Steve was sure he looked like a positive idiot, hunched in the doorway in his new uniform, until, with surprising joy, Hodge brayed, “Cap!”

“Hodge,” he replied coolly.

Hodge’s smile didn’t falter as he clasped his hands together, surveyed the room briefly, and said, “I’m starving.  Let’s eat.”

“Stand down,” Colonel Phillips growled at him.  Colonel Phillips.  God Almighty.  Steve considered turning around and walking out, but Peggy had snagged his sleeve and was hauling him forward in that effortless, Come with me or I will make you, way that he was helpless to consider resisting.

Hodge said again, “Cap!” in apparent glee.

Tentatively, Steve offered a hand, and Hodge clasped it, shook it in both of his own.  “Look at you!” Hodge brayed.  “You could bust a hole in my head!”

“Really could,” agreed another cadet whose name he hadn’t caught on the first lap, introducing himself the second Hodge let go as: “Alice.”

“Sounds like a—” began Hodge, only to be cut off by another cadet elbowing him aside and stating his given surname as Lazlo.

Steve memorized their faces and names as he really spoke to the rest of the guys in the former Super Soldier Serum program for the first time, surprised when Carter finally pushed a plate of cake into his hands and said, “This is why men should never be left in charge of anything.”

“Amen,” agreed Colonel Phillips, seated and somehow halfway through his own slice.  “And we’re not singing,” he added.

“I’m very all right with that, sir,” Steve said.

Which, of course, set them off. 

“GET OUT,” Colonel Phillips finally roared over the closed-quarters’ cacophony.  The boys departed, leaving the Colonel, the Captain, and the British Intelligence Officer alone.

“That’s better,” Peggy agreed, sitting on a bench.  “Will you stand there and gawk, Rogers?”

Tentatively, Steve sat on the same bench, leaving a good distance between them.  “Seems like a lotta trouble,” Steve said.

“It’s the Fourth of July,” Colonel Phillips barked.  “Boys need morale.  You’re it.”

Looking down, Steve speared his cake, took a bite, and thought to himself, Nobody makes it like Ma.  But it was good, and he said aloud, “Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t thank me.  You’ll be cursing me.  I’m putting you in charge of them,” Colonel Phillips said.  “Consider it a test run.  Birthday present,” he punched out, with the nearest he came to jocularity.

They weren’t the future Howling Commandos, but they were surprisingly good people, underneath the machismo.  “Just gotta have the biggest bark and meanest bite,” Colonel Phillips told him.  “That’s how you keep order.”

“Understood, sir,” Steve said, tucking in and thinking, Big bark.  Mean bite.

I can do that.

. o .

July 4, 1944

I miss being kids, Bucky, Steve thought, doing the rounds, face a mask.

As he wandered the grounds, soldiers would steal up to him with a quiet, “Captain, a word?” and he would nod, entertain them, their anxieties, their desires for information, their yearning to be near legendary strength.  They all wanted reassurance, a promise that they would make it to morning, to next year, but tonight, he tried to project belligerent unawareness, like he was totally absorbed in his own thoughts even though he could never ignore the people in his radius.

I miss when we didn’t have this damn War I dreamed of, he thought, looking over at a guy shaking on a stump, arms curled over his head.  I miss being kids.

He pulled the cigarette pack out of his pocket, jabbed the soldier in the arm—gentle didn’t work out here, gentle set people off—and ordered, “Smoke this.”  The guy looked up at him, eyes almost misting over as his jaw unhinged, and then he took the cig, nodded, and rasped, Yes, sir.  

Clamping his teeth around it, the soldier shook as he lit it up, breathing out shakily in relief.  “You’re not alone out here, soldier,” he told them, nameless nobody, who looked up at him like he was God, and he thought, I wish I had your innocence.  Because he knew nameless nobody could be dead tomorrow, shot right between the eyes, and a cigarette was a Band-Aid on a bullet hole.  Nothing.  Nothing.

I’m sorry, Buck.

Appropriately humbled, he rested his hand on the soldier’s shoulder, heavy and warm, just for a few grounding seconds, not sure if it was for him or the guy, before squeezing and moving on.  The guy’s eyes followed him, holding onto the encounter, and he thought, I hope I made the end easier.  And if you make it—it’s a hell of a story.

He walked the entire encampment, passed out two more cigarettes—one barely paused, the other wept near his feet, unhinged, and he thought, Get it together and said nothing, knowing that the ones that couldn’t pull themselves up wouldn’t survive ‘til moonlight tomorrow.  Get up.  He pleaded with them, silently, and, when the crying died down and the snuffling was manageable, passed a cigarette.  The guy took it numbly.

Steve thought, You’re not gonna make it.  He crouched on one knee, looked at terrified eyes, and said in an undertone meant for one set of ears alone, “I need you to listen to me.”  The soldier stared at him, nodded once.  “You’re gonna make it.  I promise.”

The soldier’s eyes widened, staring at him, hungry for it, needing it.  He reached out, gripped Steve’s sleeve.  Steve insisted, “I know it.  Now show it.  The others need it, too.”  The soldier let go as Steve stood, and he looked—the instant sense of catastrophe was gone, a real sense of I get to live radiating from him.

“Stay in line,” he advised simply, “keep walkin’.”  Then he followed his own advice, and spent the rest of his day saving lives, in the quietest, least obtrusive way he knew how.

I believe in you.  Now I need you to believe it, too.

. o .

July 4, 1945

Somewhere in the Kangerlussuaq glacier in Greenland, Steve Rogers slept.

His heart did not beat; his lungs did not respire.  Frozen in time, he did not even age, dead in everything but name. 

And while the rest of the world spun around him, inside that glacier, with his sludgy serum blood awaiting the chance to warm and run liquid again, Steve Rogers stayed completely inert, and twenty-six-years-old.

. o .

July 4, 1946

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. o .

July 4, 2011

Alone in an apartment in New York City, Steve Rogers sat at a small kitchen table and thought about the gun in his drawer.

Then he thought, Ma didn’t die so you could quit.

Pulling himself up by his bootstraps meant going to bed instead of going for the gun.

It wasn’t fair.  He outlived them all.

. o .

July 4, 2012

“Hey, Spangles, catch.”

Steve turned in the hallway and caught the object in question easily, then dropped it as an electric current raced through the little metal ball.  “Fun, isn’t it?” Tony Stark said cheerfully, scooping up the metal ball and saying, “Thought it’d be great for parties.”

Steve thought, Do you even know what a party is supposed to be?  But the thought made him feel sour, so he just said, “Cut it out.”

“Ooh, so I am moving forward with the Shock Ball,” Stark said cheerfully.  “I honestly think they could be great—no idea what-for besides entertainment, but how many empires have been made on pure—hey.” 

Steve grimaced at finding his elevator occupied.  “I will put it through the wall,” Steve warned.

“Kinda wanna see it,” Stark admitted, “but also, this is my favorite.  His name is PRION.  Pain-Reactive-In-Orbital-Nodules.  I mean, it’s not my best work, but the name—where’re we headed?” he leaned his back against the control panel pointedly, blocking it and chucking the—“Prion” in the air, catching it like it wasn’t a Shock Ball.

“Cut it out,” Steve repeated.

“You know, it is the Fourth of July.  If anything, I think you’d appreciate a bit of a—bang?  Shock-and-awe?  God, not my best work, I really don’t do this shit sober,” Stark said, rolling his eyes and tapping a random button without looking behind himself.  “Happy?” he asked, as they finally started descending.

Steve set his jaw and thought, Ignore him.  He’ll go away.

“So, I was thinking, table for two, riverside, very romantic,” Stark said, speaking so fast even Steve’s impressive hearing had to strain to keep up.  His face went hot, and Stark grinned like a shark.

Steve grunted, “Don’t you have something better to do?”

“No,” Stark said again, very cheerfully.  “This is way better than hanging out at the lab.  I’m doing this every day.”

Mentally exhausted, Steve stepped out of the elevator.  Stark followed.  Steve ignored him, and almost got away with it, until Stark somehow slipped the Shock Ball down the back of his jacket, and Steve yelped and spun around, fishing the damn thing out and shaking once in a violent, almost unconscious attempt to get the sensation of spiders away from his neck.  “Goddammit, Stark, I said stop it,” he snarled, crowding unrepentant Stark up against a wall, the Shock Ball mercifully elsewhere.

“Now that I have your attention,” Stark said dryly, apparently nonplussed as he pretended to pick lint off Steve’s uniform, the gesture so unexpected it froze him, damn froze him in the middle of the S.H.I.E.L.D. hallway, “good God, are you vibrating?”  He flattened his palm presumptuously against Steve’s shoulder and Steve was out of reach in a heartbeat. 

“Honestly, that’s worth exploring, your heat signature has to be off the charts, I can literally feel the—anyway,” Stark added brightly, as Steve backed away, staring at him, not sure how he was supposed to nicely put him off.

Can’t be mean.  These are your teammates.

To hell with nice.  Nice doesn’t get it done.

“Get out.”

Stark arched both eyebrows.  “As if,” he said, closing that discussion.  “Not without you, anyway,” he clarified, waving a hand.  “We’re sending the Hulk next so this is your final ‘come quietly or else’ warning.”

For a moment, Steve saw red.  Then he said in a carefully contained voice, “Don’t ever threaten me again.”

Stark shrugged.  “Then come quietly,” he said.  He held out a hand, a faux-offering.  Anger boiled in Steve’s chest, at the—the casual arrogance of it, that he would dare to offer such a thing in jest.

So, he stepped up real close—taking advantage of the five inches he had on Stark—and said in a low growl, “Don’t you ever come near me at my workplace again.”

Stark said, “My workplace, too.  Technically.  I’m a consultant.”  He unclipped the badge on his belt, waving it, and said cheerfully, “So, how do you feel about the Zoo?”

Steve wanted to die.  He didn’t give a damn about the Zoo.

Walking away was the only dignified option, so he took it.  Stark tried to follow, assuming he would stick to the elevators, but he simply ducked into a door, shut it, and barricaded it.  Stark said from the other side, “I do love a good puzzle,” and Steve sighed.

That was what Captain America was.  A novelty.  A puzzle.

God, he hated being alive in the twenty-first century more than he had hated every second of War.  There, he’d believed in an ending.  He’d believed that there was something like a sun over the horizon.

What was there here, but more of the same, day after day?

Wearily, he found the secret exit in the floor, pried the panel loose without the property authority, and dropped down to the lower floor.  From there, it was a simple matter of descending the staircase and exiting the building, all without encountering Tony Stark again.

He went to his apartment, even got inside it, and thought, briefly and disturbingly, Just do it.  Do it while you still can.  They didn’t need him, not now, not yet—maybe not ever again.  They’d invent a purpose, make up a reason to keep him around.

He had to get out.  Do it if he was going to do it.

Barricading the door for good measure, he wandered around his barren, soulless apartment, making sure there wasn’t a damn thing of his that they could put in a museum—not that he hadn’t signed his soul over as Captain America, but there was something insidious about the joyful looting of Steve Rogers’ life, how they had taken his mother’s sketchbook and put it on display—before going for his bedroom.

Brave soldier.

Natasha Romanoff said sweetly, “Nice place you got here.”

Just like that, all the forward momentum, the feeling of rightness, deflated.  He stood in the doorway, momentarily paralyzed, and slowly, slowly retreated.  He thought, It’s a mirage.  He even thought, Just ignore her.  Do it anyway.

But it was a terrible little thing inside him, a lonely, aching, acidic monster, its poison like a fever that wouldn’t go away, and he thought of those soldiers and that damn brick-thrower, and wondered if he had the same look in his eyes.  He didn’t have a mirror, except in the bathroom, which was adjacent to the bedroom, because of course it was.

God, he was tired.  He sat down at the table in the kitchen, the only space where he could see his whole little world.

It seemed to take forever for anything to happen, and when Romanoff appeared, he thought about casting her out, too, but the energy of a conversation was far beyond him.  Sitting instead, mute, torn open, unable to verbalize why he hated them all and none of them, really—why he couldn’t stand their world or the one he had left, why it wasn’t far that Bucky, easy-to-laugh and happy-to-be Bucky, had fallen off that train when he was the fuckup who shouldn’t have survived past childhood—he just ended up making a deep noise, a wrongly inhaled breath, and pressing a hand to his forehead.

He thought, Don’t you dare cry.  Not in front of Romanoff.  Not in front of anyone, but especially someone from this world.  They didn’t deserve to know him, to see what got under his skin, what ruffled him, what tormented him, what he had in his drawers.  You know, don’t you? he thought.  None of them had a sense of privacy.  She knew.  She knew.

God Almighty.

Romanoff pulled out the other chair at the table.  He thought about telling her she wasn’t welcome, but the words could not get past his throat, and the anger was solid, a mass of ice, not a real emotion.  He wasn’t sure he had real emotions.  He felt fucked up beyond all recognition.  He felt wrong, like something had died in the ice, and it was the whole world he knew and loved, and he brought his other hand to hide in properly, grateful she couldn’t see his face anymore.

Let her wonder about how crazy he was.  Maybe they’d lock him up, and anything remotely good would go away, and he’d spend the rest of his days unable to prove he was a sane man living an insane reality.

It surprised him very much, although not in a necessarily bad way, when he felt warm fingers settle on his arm.

Just on the sleeve of the uniform, low enough to be shaken off easily, but he didn’t move, and neither did she.

She waited, and he took his time, knowing he should pull himself out of the mud faster than this, that it would stick to his skin and drag him down if he let it, keep moving, but it was so much easier to hunch in quiet misery and think, I don’t want to do this.

And he knew it was right, the flavor of it—not can’t, not might not be able to.  No—it was a simple lack of desire, a simple, overwhelming desire, such that he had never felt before, to not go forward and see what came next.

“In hindsight,” Romanoff began, her voice pleasantly conversational, neither too soft nor too harsh, “Stark probably wasn’t the best choice, but he’s pretty sensitive about going last.”

There was a hint of amusement, there.  “He’s brave,” Romanoff went on.  “Reckless, but.  Brave.”  She retracted her arm, and Steve drew in a few quiet breaths, stabilizing, before lowering his hands, looking at her, determined not to shy away from her and look out the window, bright and sunny.  God, what a terrible day to die.  “Lonely,” Romanoff added, which surprised him.  “Lonely people are eager to not be lonely.”

He could not look at her, gaze falling to the table.  She said simply, “I don’t think that’s you.”

He looked up at her without lifting his head, merely lifting his gaze.  “I think,” she breezed on, leaving forward, conspiratorial without trying to be, “you’ve got all the people you need, back there.  We’re just in the way.”

Throat tight, Steve lifted his chin and permitted, “Not far from the mark.”

Romanoff smiled, a small, almost sweet thing, sharing a certain, special kind of sadness.  “We all start over, Rogers,” she said.  “It’s part of growing up.  You lost something.  You can mourn.  But you can’t go back.”

Aware that she was right, Steve simply nodded.  “You go forward,” Romanoff reminded.

Steve said slowly, without anything to lose, “What if I don’t want to?”

Romanoff merely looked at him for a long moment, offering neither nod nor negation.  “Maybe you don’t believe in this,” she said at last, “but I still think Steve Rogers deserves a happy ending.  Owe it to yourself to try.”

He thought of soldiers on the brink, calling them back with one baseless promise.

He swallowed.  “I’ll try,” he said.

Any plans for a big party were scrapped utterly, but when Stark finally came knocking like a hopeful puppy looking for treats, Steve thought, Lonely, and let him in.  Then Stark hugged him, which startled him so much he nearly fell backwards, nearly took Stark with him, as Stark simply held on, and, after an uncomfortably long time, let go and said, “In the immortal words of Kelly Clarkson, my life would suck without you.”

Surprisingly—touched, figuratively and literally, Steve said, “You dropped your ball.”

Tony looked and said, “Oh, PRION.”  Scooping it up and pocketing it, he made a strange gesture over his heart and promised, “Cross my heart, I won’t use it.  I promised,” he told Romanoff, stepping back so Steve was entirely between them.  “Please don’t hurt me.  I said sorry.”

“I didn’t hear it,” Romanoff said dryly.

Stark grumbled, “I definitely said it, didn’t I say it?”  Sucking in a long-suffering breath, he said, “I am . . . apologetic.”  Waving a hand, he added, “For . . . things.  Not this,” he added, patting the PRION ball, before whimpering when a knife appeared in the doorframe. 

“And this,” Stark said gravely, pulling out the PRION ball and saying, “I am . . . s—sorry.  Ugh.  I am sorry for this.  But only because she has a gun, somewhere.  Please don’t hurt me,” he repeated, gently grabbing Steve’s uniform and moving him so he was, once more, between Romanoff and Stark.  “She thinks you’re the bee’s—OW.”  Leaping on one foot, he howled, “She stabbed me!”

Steve looked down, but there was no blood, and the Swiss Army knife was still folded up.  “Oops,” Romanoff drawled.  “Hand slipped.”

“I hate you,” Stark bawled, clutching his foot.

Steve stepped back, encouraging dryly, “She won’t—”

“No.  I don’t trust this.  Booby traps.”

“Tony,” Steve rebuked, aghast at the terminology.  “That’s no way to talk to a woman—”

Tony yanked him into the hallway and off to the side, and said, “Uh-uh, she stabbed me, I’m not going anywhere near her.”  He thrust his middle finger into plain view in the threshold, adding, “Goodbye.  You may have the apartment.”

“Hey, that’s my—”

Tony rolled his eyes and shooed him towards the stairs.  “Hurry up, she can smell blood and I am bleeding because I have been stabbed.”

“Tony, the blade was closed,” Steve said, amused despite himself.

Shaking his head, Tony just dragged him down the staircase, almost fast enough to trip him up.  “God,” he huffed, pausing at the bottom of the staircase to plant a hand on Steve’s chest and yank shoe and sock off his right foot.  Sure enough, there was a dark blue bruise on the center of his foot, though no blood.  “Do you even know how many nerves are in the feet?  This is a form of torture.  I think it’s broken,” he grunted, shoving sock and shoe back on with much yowling and hand on Steve’s chest.

“Well,” Steve offered, sensing an unusual opportunity for revenge as he scooped up Tony Stark bridal-style, “if it’s broken, then—”

“Put me down,” Tony growled, his voice far from menacing as Steve carted him outdoors.  “I will shave your head in your sleep.”

“Mm-hm.”

“I hate both of you,” Tony snapped.  “You two are the goddamn bane of my—”

“Feisty,” Steve mused, and settled for tossing him over his shoulder like a freshly-killed deer until Tony wheezed, Uncle, uncle, while patting the back of his shoulder frantically.

Steve set him back on the ground.  One foot elevated, grimacing in discomfort, Tony pressed a hand over the glowing blue spot on his shirt and wheezed, “Tryin’ to kill me?”

Looking down at Tony’s hand and the glow underneath it, Steve asked, “You okay?”

“No, I’m not okay,” Tony grunted.  “I am traumatized from my stab wound and kidnapping.”

Steve rolled his eyes.  Tony tensed like an angry cat when Steve put an arm around his shoulders, but Steve just said, “Lean on me.”

“Sure, mm-hm, I trust you,” Tony grunted, but he didn’t shake Steve off, limping to avoid putting weight on his foot.  “Worst birthday ever.”

“It was nice of you to offer,” Steve conceded, deciding he could be gracious.

Tony just grumbled, “Mm, see if I ever offer anything again.”  He nodded at the fanciest-looking car on the block, adding, “If Happy shoots you, I am not gonna apologize.”

“Who’s Happy?” Steve asked, seconds before a very large man, shaped precisely like a bodyguard, leaped out of the driver’s seat and nearly barreled into him to get to Tony, urging:

“Out of the way—gotta get you to the car, sir, then take care of the—”

“Love the passion, that’s Captain America,” Tony said, sounding equal parts exasperated and amused.

Steve arched an eyebrow as he found himself chest to muzzle with a gun a moment later, wielded by the “Happy” bodyguard.  “Who are you and what do you want with Tony Stark?” Happy demanded.

Steve blinked once, then looked at Tony, who was seated in the back of the car scanning a small device with apparent boredom.  “Happy,” Tony finally said, when neither Steve nor the bodyguard seemed inclined to make the first move.  “Cease-and-desist.”

“Sir,” Happy said, shoving his gun in his belt and glaring witheringly at Steve.  “I still think it is extremely important that we take certain—”

“Rogers,” Tony interrupted, clicking his fingers and pointing at the seat next to him.  “Don’t have all day.”

Steve waited for the bodyguard to step back.  Tony finally called, “Happy,” which had the gratifying effect of calling him back.

“You kids are really startin’ to piss me off,” Tony told Steve.  As soon as the doors were shut and Happy had conceded to cease glaring at Steve to drive, Tony unclicked his belt and flopped across the seats, pillowing his head on Steve’s thigh.  “It’s like soft marble.  How is that even possible?”

Steve twitched his leg away, but there wasn’t a lot of space to move.  “Cut it out,” he grumbled.

“I’m wounded,” Tony quipped, chasing his errant pillow and shutting his eyes mulishly.  “Give me a break, I gave you a nice room and this is the thanks I get?”

Tempted to shove him onto the floor as he was, Steve realized there wasn’t enough room to accommodate Tony without hurting him, and he wasn’t that mean.  “Think you gave my room away,” he reminded.

“Please.  That junkyard?”  Tony sniffed in mock disapproval.  “Do you even know how many bugs live in those beds?”  Wagging a finger imperiously in the air, nearly jabbing Steve in the face, he added, “That’s what I thought.”

Steve caught his hand, pinned it to his side, and said in genuine incredulity, “You’re something else.”

Tony Stark glared cuttingly at him.  “I’m something better,” he sniffed, shutting his eyes and making himself comfortable against Steve’s leg.

. o .

This century is weird, Steve thought, not for the first time as Stark, still limping, showed him his brand-new room—in Stark Tower.

“I have an apartment,” Steve reminded, also not for the first time, as they wandered from the bedroom to the study to the lounge, because he had an entire floor to himself, and Tony said:

“Please, do you have a bar at your apartment?” he asked, sweeping a hand over it.  Then, looking Steve over, he admitted, “You can stock it with whatever you want, but I’ve done some calculations, you might like this,” he added, holding up a clear bottle labeled Everclear.  “Ninety-five percent alcohol content,” he said, waggling his eyebrows.  “Even I can’t drink it straight.”

That was a challenge if he ever heard one.  Taking the bottle, popping the lid, Steve paused when Tony put a hand on his arm and said, “Slowly.  I don’t want supercalifragilisticexp-alcoholic poisoning on my hands because you metabolize faster than I calculated.”

Steve obligingly did not chug the entire bottle, but the first gulp alone went down like concentrated gasoline, and it took three more short gulps to feel the beginnings of a buzz.  “Hey,” he said, surprised, lowering the bottle and swaying, Tony putting a hand out and grinning at him.  “That works.”

“Duh.  You just need the good Russian tonics.  I’ll have Romanoff send up some recommendations,” he added cheerfully, as Steve took another long drag from the bottle, and then one more for good measure, and finished it for health.

Setting it down, he hiccupped once, leaned a hand against the bar, and then sagged against it, announcing in a pleasantly nonchalant voice, “I can’t walk.”

“Makes two of us,” Tony said, equally nonchalant, fishing out a bottle for himself and taking a sip.  “Cheers.”

“This is swell,” Steve said, carefully navigating into a chair and settling both arms against the counter.  “That’s a nice buzz.”

“Yeah, well, thanks for going through my entire stock in one fell swoop,” Tony drawled, hopping up onto a seat next to him.  “Kidding—nice to know it works, really not my kink,” he added, offering the bottle in hand and adding, “See, this—”  Steve sipped it, and found it was comparatively sweet, so sweet it almost made him gag, “thanks, Quality Assurance—this is the good stuff.  That’s just poison in a bottle,” he said, sounding affectionate.  “Listing to starboard, Cap,” he added, and Steve planted a hand on the bar to stabilize himself.

“Haven’t had a buzz since ’41,” he said pleasantly.

“Mm-hm.  They don’t concentrate them like they do, now.  Lot to love, you know,” Tony said, sipping his own poison of choice.

“We had it good,” Steve said, quietly proud.  “We didn’t have much.  But we had it good.”

He sensed Tony’s gaze on him, but he didn’t look at Tony, shutting his own eyes, savoring the warm feeling that seemed to spread to his toes.  “Listing to starboard,” Tony said again, and he blinked his eyes to find himself nearly pillowing his cheek on his arms on the bar.  “Tell you what, I have the world’s comfiest couches—scientifically verified,” he added, and hopped down, hollered surprisingly loudly for a human person as his broken foot hit the hard flooring, and then said tightly, “Right.  Couches.”

Steve slinked off the bar, thought about offering to carry him, figured that could go very poorly, and instead walked as steadily after him as he could bear, out of practice after—what, seventy years? he thought, flopping facedown onto the world’s comfiest couch.

“Uh-uh,” Tony Stark was saying, poking him in the side, “scoot, I want—you know what?”  Steve didn’t even grumble as Tony climbed on top of him, flattened into a comfortable fold, and said, “Hah.  I’m a genius.  Tiered couches.  You could make a brand out of this.  Speaking of brands, bold choice leaving the shield with Romanoff, you don’t think she’ll run back to Mother Russia with it?  I’m just saying, it is a hell of a temptation. . . .”

Eyes shut, Steve listened to the lonely bastard pour his heart out, losing the thread for a time, recapturing it as Tony was saying, “. . . not sure how aquariums would fly, honestly, kind of freaky, but—well, it’s a rite of passage, up to you, just don’t punch a shark.”

“Why would I?” Steve asked, his voice deeper and slower than he expected.

“Because sharks are very punchable,” Tony said lazily.  “Focus up.  It’s how you hack the shark code.  Hey, you haven’t seen Jaws, then you’ll wanna punch a shark.”  Squirming, he said, “I’m cold, or this would be perfect.  I mean, not perfect, because you’re you, and I’m  me, but I’m cold, so I’m gonna get up now, in three, two, one, huughhh.” 

Struggling mightily against gravity and the desire to stay where he was, sprawled across Steve’s back, Tony finally planted his forehead against Steve’s shoulder and uttered, “Okay, I quit.  I’m just gonna freeze to death.  You made out all right.  Sorry, that was insensitive.  But you did.”

 “Mm-hm,” Steve said.  “I did.”

“You did,” Tony agreed, shoving his arms around Steve’s torso, somehow, hugging him.  “God, you’re so warm.  This normal?  Or just, like, summer?”

“Don’ know,” Steve mumbled.  “Haven’t had much to compare to, on ice.”

“Well, good news, no more’a that,” Tony said.  “I need this.  Personal space heater.  Heh, revolutionize the Boyfriend Pillow industry, Cap Pillow—same thing but it’s heated, that can’t end wel—”

“Tony,” Steve groaned.  “Be quiet.”

“No-can-do,” Tony said.  “Sorry, Cap.”  Then, contrarily, he fell silent, just breathing, and Steve realized, in some vague way, how intimate it was without conversation, and shifted, thinking:

Gotta get up, keep moving.

But it was nice to lie still, and Tony seemed happy, besides—Tony was snoring, God.  “Tony,” he said, then, louder: “Tony.”

“What,” Tony grumbled.

“You were snoring.”

“And drooling,” Tony said cheerfully.  “I’m sorry.  I’m not.  Hey, can we do this more?  This is therapeutic.”  He whined audibly when Steve sat up slowly, dislodging him.  “No, c’mon, I was almost done soaking up your Vita Rays.  It’s like that—scene in Hercules.”

“Hm?”  Steve shook him free gently as he continued to cling, standing up and stretching, feeling like he’d gotten a bit of unexpected—therapy.  “The—”

“Disney movie,” Tony said, nodding.  Steve frowned.  “Disney?  Mickey Mouse?”

“Oh,” Steve said, nodding.  “Wasn’t into it,” he shrugged.

Tony cocked his head at him.  “Your reeducation isn’t complete.  But!”  Snapping his fingers suddenly, seeming to snap himself out of his own daze, he added, “Wait, there’s more.”

. o .

Steve wasn’t quite shy when Tony showed him the balcony room, where Clint Barton and Bruce Banner were hanging out, but he was far from comfortable.  “We got a fish,” Tony beamed, making Barton and Banner look over.  Barton looked pleased, arching both eyebrows; Banner looked frightened, shrinking perceptibly deeper into his chair.  “Behold!”

“Nice,” Barton said.

“What kind of fish?” Banner gulped, still staring at Steve like he expected him to attack.

Tony waved a hand at Steve, still limping and hopping over to the fridge, pulling it open and adding, “Answers to Steve, Rogers, Cap, dickhead—”

“Tony,” Steve chastised.

“See?” Tony beamed, pulling out a cake.  Then, after a wary pause: “This isn’t insensitive, is it?”

Steve followed him into the kitchen area, looked at the cake—which was patriotically colored and included the bold blue inscription HAPPY BIRTHDAY STEBE—said, “Why would it be?”

“Ice cream?” Barton asked, sounding hopeful.  “Only waited nine years for you to show up—”

“Quiet,” Tony told him, looking at Steve and adding, “Ice cream cake is scientifically the best kind of cake, because I said so.”  Then, squinting at the cake, he demanded, “How hard is it to spell Steve?”

“Very,” Barton said, catching Steve’s eyes and winking, then, fetching a pack of candles, asking, “How many are we—”

“All,” Tony said, somewhat alarmingly.

Romanoff walked in right as they finished the second pack of candles.  “What’re we up to—”

“Halfway there,” Tony replied cheerfully, animosity forgotten as he continued stabbing candles into the cake.  “Banner, get in here.”

Between the three of them, they got ninety-four candles in the cake, despite Steve’s protests.  He’d never had a cake with the correct number of candles on it before, and the thought of starting now was insane, but they were persistent.  The irony that it was still the wrong number hit him unexpectedly hard, but he didn’t stop Stark and Barton from attacking the cake with individual lighters.

“I’m winning,” Tony announced, while Romanoff held up her phone to record the event for posterity.  “I’m—ow!”

Cackling, Barton gained a modest lead while Tony stuffed his burnt finger in his mouth, grumbling around it, “Foul.”

When they had every visible candle aflame, they shooed Steve in front of the cake, told him, “Think fast,” with fire extinguisher on hand, and he thought:

Give me a reason to stay.

Then he blew out all ninety-four candles to applause.

Ice cream cake was nothing like his Ma’s, and he—liked that.  He liked that they weren’t as warmly outgoing with each other as the Barnes’s, more self-contained, adults.  He liked that they weren’t comfortable putting a hand on him—Tony was the exception, but Tony kissed a scarlet-faced Banner on the cheek and got in an arm-wrestling match with Barton that seemed fit to give him a matching injury to suit his foot, seemed effortlessly comfortable hogging the spotlight.

And when he found himself drawing on a notepad in his own lounge and Tony Stark came knocking, Steve didn’t tell him to scram.  “I’m checking for mice,” Tony lied, making a show of looking around breathtakingly briefly before sprawling on the world’s most comfortable couch right next to him, resting his head on Steve’s leg.  “No mice.”  Then he shut his eyes and resumed snoring.

Steve thought idly, Whatever happened to buying a guy dinner, huh?  He continued sketching the turtle he’d been working on—turtles were nice because they were light on the mind, and it was fun to put shields on their back, besides, just like his own, sitting across the room, retrieved by Romanoff—and wondered why soft marble was comfortable to sleep on.

Maybe Stark was just a weird guy who had a very specific pillow preference.

Or maybe he was just that lonely, and comfort was a compromise.  Who knew?  Tony Stark was an enigma, but Steve wasn’t about to shove him away, not when he wasn’t bothering him at all, when he had given him . . . all this.

Peace.  Quiet.

Sure, the Fourth of July wasn’t supposed to be.  But Steve was the most patriotic American on Earth three-hundred-and-sixty-four-days-a-year.  Once a year, he got a free pass to be something else.  To be himself.

Shamelessly, quietly.

He sketched a sharp hare standing on its hind legs in front of the tortoise, amusing himself.

To be continued, he thought, shutting the notebook and wondering what kind of surreal world he’d fallen into.

. o .

July 4, 2013

Lucky twenty-nine was a slow cooker kind of day. 

Lying on a lounge chair, Steve basked in nothing but a pair of shorts, soaking in a different kind of Vita ray.  The perks of living in a skyscraper were far from few, but the view was by-far his favorite. 

The remoteness was even better—Tony had set up clear reflective paneling around the edges of the balcony to prevent nosy journalists from peering into their private lives with telescopes.  It was a welcome escape from the rest of the world, a way of getting away without closing himself off completely.

Besides: Sitting outside is better than sitting inside, he thought, smiling, arms tucked behind his head.

The gang had already tried to rope him into an elaborate party.  He had gently refuted their attempts, then forcefully holed up in his quarters until they holstered the silly string cannisters.  They were welcome to put up streamers for Clint’s big day or break out the confetti for Tony’s, but for Steve Rogers, all he wanted was to be left alone.

So far, so swell, he thought.  Even the weather was cooperating—not a cloud in the sky, the perfect temperature for baking.  Shutting his eyes, he soaked in the sunshine.  Then he misplaced the time. 

When the door slid open to admit Tony, Steve looked down and saw that he’d turned a rather vivacious shade of red from chin to heel, with an intermission at the shorts’ line.  Grimacing at the image more than the physical feeling—his skin felt tight, but the pain would only come on contact—he glanced over when Tony said lightly, “Guess that answers that question.”

Shuffling upright, Steve stood.  Tony leaned against the rail and said, “Ditch the shorts and put on some aviators, you could be red-white-and-blue.”  He grinned like a dog with a bone.

Steve grunted, “I thought you were in the lab.”

“I was,” Tony said, indicating his rather more conservative garb.  “But then I thought about the turkey baking on my porch and wanted to check it out.”  He sauntered over, grabbed Steve’s waistband, and tugged it down to reveal and inch of white skin, saying, “See, patriotic.”

Steve yanked his shorts back up and said, “Cut it out.”

Shrugging, Tony said, “It’s for science.”  He squinted at Steve when he swiped the sunglasses from him in retaliation.  “Now I’m blind.  What do you have to say for yourself?”

Trying them on, Steve said, “It’s for science.”  He’d been missing out, actually—the glasses turned the brightness down from a withering oceanic sheen to a very pleasant afternoon cityscape.  It’d be remarkable to draw, he thought, swiveling around.

“You take my stuff, I’ll take yours,” Tony warned, tugging on his belt again, and he surrendered the glasses.  Replacing them over his own eyes, Tony sniffed, “Never pegged you for a klepto.”

They had never exchanged any kinds of gifts before, but when Tony said in an undertone, “This is a fluke,” and handed him a small box, he blinked at it, almost handed it back, We don’t give gifts, Tony.  It seemed strange, like it would set a precedent, or maybe defile a good, easy thing, but Steve knew it would be worse to refuse it outright.  So, he opened it, and saw a pair of sunglasses, Tony’s sniff that they were, “A prototype, but, can’t have everything on short notice,” easy to ignore.

Haven’t gotten a birthday present since 1935, he didn’t say, trying them on despite being indoors.  Instantly, it was easier to focus on the people and not all the noise, all the novelties and strange straight lines that predominated the modern scene, the concrete instead of wood and glass instead of open spaces. 

He didn’t linger, pulling them off and almost grimacing at the immediate return to reality, noisy and full.  But the thought that—underneath all the weird edges—there were still humans involved, was surprisingly comforting.  He knew how to deal with people.  The stuff—he could get used to.  He would.  Eventually.

“Thank you, Tony.”

Tony leaned into him, briefly, a faux-hug, and it didn’t even hurt against his healed skin.  “Don’t mention it.”

. o .

July 4, 2014

They tried baking a cake for his thirtieth birthday.

The baking part was all right, Steve supposed—dark around the edges, but they got all the right ingredients in and it seemed to hold its shape, and it was fun, besides.  They lathered on more frosting than Steve thought strictly necessary and wrote STEB instead of STEVE because Clint got ahold of the cake decorator.  Overall, the baking was a success.

It was the candles that proved their undoing.  They wouldn’t stay upright.  Just when the cake seemed ready to go out with a whimper, it suddenly became flammable.  Fire extinguishers were conjured, putting the poor cake out of its misery.

There was more laughter that year than any year Steve could recall.  He found himself grinning irrepressibly as he recalled the moment the dry cake caught fire between bites of ice cream cake.

I have a really weird family, he thought, struck by the fact that it was his family—unasked for, and yet, one-for-all and all-for-one, it was still his weird family.  No kids and no white picket fences, but plenty of camaraderie to go around.

Even the Howling Commandos had always kept him on a bit of a pedestal, Captain America, the necessity of War separating commander from his commandos. 

Here, without a War, he was—well, just Steve was wrong, but he was far from intimidating the indomitable Romanoff or the indefatigable Barton, and Thor was clearly no one’s soldier.  Even Banner’s gentle cowering couldn’t hide the fact that, Hulked out, he could put any of them through the wall, and the regular guy had enough smarts to leave Tony speechless, never mind the seventy-year-old fossil.

In a family of oddballs, he was normal, he thought, pleased.  Back home, he’d been a standout in a bad way, but here, standing out was—well, hard to do, he thought, rolling his eyes as Barton strummed a fake guitar to his heart’s content while Tony kicked at his ankle to get him off the coffee table.

. o .

July 4, 2015

“I can’t lose you,” Tony Stark said, standing in a safe house outside D.C. and gripping his back with unexpected ferocity, hugging him like he was a life raft in an ocean.

He’s lonely.  Lonely people are eager not to be lonely.

Steve Rogers hugged back with one arm.  “I have to do this, Tony,” he said.

Tony cursed against his shoulder.  He hung on harder.  “No, bad idea,” he insisted.  “Your guy turned, I’m sorry, Cap—”

“He’s been lost for seventy years,” Steve said softly, pulling back, holding Tony back, arm’s length.  Devastating eyes fixed on him.  Don’t do this.  Don’t make me beg.  “Somebody’s gotta bring him home.  Nobody else can.”

“He tried to kill you,” Tony said, trapped, unable to move closer but putting a hand on Steve’s shoulder, right over the deep ache.  “Do you hear me?  He’s gone, Steve.”

“He’s still in there,” Steve insisted quietly.  “And I’m gonna get him back.”  He started to pull away completely.

Tony gripped his shirt in an iron fist.  “Then you’re not gonna do it alone,” he insisted, tense but firm.  “All right?  This is your fight?  This is our fight.  What does coleaders mean,” he added, exasperated and clinging, literally clinging to Steve’s shirt, holding onto him, “if we don’t try to solve each other’s problems, huh?”

The spike of guilt, the automatic apology: “I’m sorry, Tony—”

Shaking his head, Tony dismissed, “Blood under the bridge.  Water under the bridge,” he corrected, making a strangled noise when Steve pried his hand off and stepped back, the remote cabin not fit for a man of his stature.  “Don’t do this to me, buddy.”

“Tony,” Steve said, half-pleading, half-ordering.  “I have to go.”

“No, you have to stay alive,” Tony said, very emphatically, crowding him against the wall, leaning against him like he could hold him there.  Steve let him, feeling too numb to push him away.  “Which you clearly cannot do where James Barnes is concerned, all right?”

Steve said nothing, tentatively bringing a hand to the base of Tony’s neck before stroking down his back once.  The shivering worsened, but he leaned in more, so Steve did it again, letting Tony Stark lean against him and wondering if he got to keep anything good or had to explain, in gentle words, I have to go to War, Tony.  Do you understand?

He never would, because he didn’t want to go, any more than Bucky had wanted to ship off.  Steve Rogers was the bastard who wouldn’t quit.  He was the one who kept going off to fight battles he couldn’t hope to win because he couldn’t ignore a fire any more than he could ignore a cry for help.  I have to go, he thought, trying to make himself push Tony away and run, far and fast, so Tony couldn’t follow.

Just gonna run away, huh?  Leave help in the dust?

Tony Stark was more than a friend, a well-meaning partner without the tools to solve problems: he was Iron Man, he was a world-class problem solver, a genius, a fighter, a guy who could find James Barnes, with proper motivation.  And he had it, all right.

He loves me.

Steve rested his cheek against Tony’s temple, knuckling down his back, agitating the numbness, chasing away the tension.  He didn’t know how to say the truth out loud, I know.  Two simple words that were dead in his chest, because if he said them, Tony would die, and then he would be holding empty air, and chasing a ghost, alone.  It was that simple—loving people killed them in Steve Rogers’ world.

So he made sure to wrap his arm around Tony, and hug him briefly, to say, I’m sorry, without words, and then walk away slowly.  He was not cruel enough to run, to vanish in fear at the revelation Tony refused to share and Steve refused to name.

Tony didn’t want to drown, and he shouldn’t have to, chasing Steve’s demons.  It was Steve’s fault Bucky was caught up in the War.

I’m gonna bring you home.

He didn’t care if it killed him—as long as it didn’t kill Tony, he’d die trying to save Bucky.

He was halfway across the world on a Quinjet before he realized it was still the Fourth, and he thought, Not the worst birthday ever.

There were sixty-odd birthdays on ice.  Those were definitely worse.

. o .

July 4, 2016

There was celebration in the air, and sorrow.  It was the Fourth of July, after all.

“Y’okay?” Steve asked, shutting the door behind him.

Tony Stark stood at the compound railing, swishing a drink that was nothing more than ice.  “Assassinated,” he said, testing out the word.  “My parents were assassinated.”  He went to sip the drink, paused, and then lowered it, twitching it, like more would materialize that way.  “Would you be?”

Steve thought about his Ma, sweet as summer, being torn from him not by the insidious grasp of a disease but a human hand.  He felt like he couldn’t breathe.  He made himself say, “It’d take time.”

“It’d take time,” Tony spat, turning from the railing to look at him, eyes bloodshot, sleepless.  “It’d take time, he says.”  He jabbed the empty glass at Steve’s chest, looking hurt and tired and full of a loathing so thick it could not be named.  “And what would you do, if you knew the name of her killer?”

Steve swallowed.  It wasn’t a conscious gesture—it simply happened, fists tensing, body preparing to fight a monster that didn’t exist. 

(Ma, you gotta—

I can’t, love.  Not this time.)

That they were her last words haunted him.  She wasn’t supposed to die.

“I don’t know what I’d do,” he acknowledged, because Tony deserved the truth.  Tony deserved more the truth, watery apologies.  He deserved his parents.  Dad was a bastard—but I miss her.  The world gets darker when your parents aren’t in it.

He looked at Steve, searching for answers, for truth, righteousness.  What he found disappointed him; he smashed the glass on the floor.  Steve flinched, more sharply than he intended.  Tony sobbed once.  Just once—could’ve been a hiccup, for how quickly he pulled himself back, but Steve saw it.

He shoved Steve hard when he stepped closer, growling, “Do not touch me.”

Steve thought, I’m sorry, Tony.  Telling him had been harder than he’d thought it would be, and he’d thought of a drink, himself, a whole crate, just to numb the pronouncement.  He’d thought, God, Buck.  This is how I lose him.  But he couldn’t lose him any other way.

It had to be with the truth.

Tony turned towards the pool, gripping the railing.  “I hated you,” he seethed, speaking more to the night than Steve.  “Once I knew—once I got my shit together, I hated you.”  Steve didn’t ask what he meant.  Once the veil of awe wore off, a lot of people hated the man behind Captain America.  Steve Rogers wasn’t their expectations—he was quiet, or belligerent, mouthy.  He refused to go down without a fight, even when the fight was issued by a commanding officer; and as a Captain in the Army, he had plenty of Commanders.

He had a feeling Tony’s words weren’t directed at the rosy-colored illusion shattered, though, as he spat, “If you hadn’t gone missing, he wouldn’t have spent a lifetime looking.  He never even found you.  Precious irony.  Couldn’t even die right, could you?”  Steve was very aware of the shattered glass on the ground, a tangible barrier between them, as Tony shivered and said, “Couldn’t just go down in a hail of bullets.  Had to give him hope.  You ruined him.  You ruined—”  He breathed in shortly, sharply, and then turned to say bitterly, “Why’d you tell me?  You want me to hate you?  That it?  This all a big elaborate way to—”

“I love you,” Steve said, quietly, the words slowly pulled from him, reeled out of him like a fishing line.  He couldn’t catch a shark, a Stark, but—“I’m sorry, Tony.”

Tony stared at him, gawking mutely, genuinely thunderstruck.  For a moment, Steve thought he would tell him to leave, get out.  He would.  He’d run and never return, if that was what it took to prove he was sincere.  I love you.  And if you say go—

Tony’s shoes crunched over the broken glass.  Steve thought, Be careful, and then his mind went quiet as Tony tugged him into a kiss, half-challenge, half-desperation, gripping the back of Steve’s neck too much force, kissing with too much whiskey on his breath.  Steve slid his own hands around Tony’s shoulders, gently brushing his thumbs over Tony’s the soft blades, feeling him shiver as he broke away and pressed his open mouth against Steve’s collarbone, ignoring the shirt, breathing there unsteadily, trying to control something.

Steve thought, I’m a mess.  He wasn’t long off the plane, but he didn’t comment on it, just brushed quiet promises against Tony’s shoulders, I’m here, I’m here.  I promise I’m here.

He slid his arms down, lifting Tony up so his feet weren’t on the glass and ice anymore, elevating him.  It was easy—his new body made everything easy, flying leaps that shouldn’t have been possible suddenly all he wanted to do, given half a chance—and the way Tony slung his arms around Steve’s neck, legs around his waist, felt surprisingly natural.

I can hold you, he thought, humbled and proud of the fact.  He wasn’t born for it, but it was the greatest consequence of the serum since losing the asthmatic hitch to his breath whenever he tried to run.  He was born to run, and now he could.  This was the next best thing.  He breathed deeply, and he could feel Tony’s rabbity heart rate, feel the strange warmth buzzing from the arc reactor in his chest.

You know, I thought about it, Tony had said, one errant night.  Couldn’t do it.  They’ll—they’d have to take more, and I—can’t do it.

It suited him.  Steve didn’t need to say it, easing back a few steps, smooth as any mission, don’t fall.  He set Tony down, gently.  Tony exhaled against his shoulder, arms squeezing his neck, refusing to let go, forcing him to bow.

“I gotcha,” he promised.

“Goddammit, Steve,” Tony uttered.

And it was love.

. o .

July 4, 2017

“Star-Spangled Ding-Dong?” Tony asked.

“Pardon?” Steve grunted, lifting his head from his pillow.

Standing at the foot of the bed in his briefs, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, Tony Stark shook the box of—Star-Spangled Ding-Dongs and said, “Couldn’t resist.”  He chucked the box onto the bed next to Steve.  “Those are for you.  And me.  Happy birthday.  I ate half of them.  I don’t think I’ve had this much sugar before noon since I was five.”

Steve looked at the Star-Spangled Ding-Dongs, rubbed his eyes against the lukewarm ambient lighting, and finally asked gruffly, “Time ‘s it?”

“Bravo,” Tony said, pointing at him triumphantly, like Steve had cracked a code.  “One forty-five.  I wanted to be first,” he said with a shrug, clambering into bed next to Steve.  “Also, I may have completely shirked that Don’t get me a gift agreement—”

“Awh, God, Tony,” Steve sighed, slinging an arm around Tony’s back, skin unexpectedly cool from wandering around the compound.  “I didn’t get you a gift.”

“Yes, you did.”  Shuffling closer, Tony shoved a leg between his, got comfortable up against his—still don’t see how marble is soft, Tony; that’s because you’re near-sighted, dearest—chest, and sighed contentedly.  Then Tony pawed around for the box and insisted, “You totally did.  J.A.R.V.I.S., help me out here.”

“According to my records,” Tony’s butler phoned in, still alert despite the late hour, “a sweater was stolen from Captain Rogers’ wardrobe on your birthday, sir.”

“Stolen is a strong word,” Tony grunted.  “Spontaneously gifted is more accurate.”

Humming in understanding, Steve slung an arm around him.  Tony opened the box.  “Tony,” Steve grumbled.

“What?” Tony shook out a frosted treat, thankfully wrapped in plastic.  “Some of us are—”

“Going to bed,” Steve finished, swiping the box from him and setting it on the dresser behind him.  “J.A.R.V.I.S, lights out.”

“Of course, sir,” J.A.R.V.I.S. complied, and Steve swore he sounded pleased.  Of course, the glowing blue light in Tony’s chest continued to light up their airspace, somewhat negating the effect.

Tony started to unwrap the sweet, but Steve caught it.  Tony growled.  “Get your hand off my Ding-Dong.”

“Tony, we’ve been dating for a year,” Steve sighed.

“So?”  Tony finished unwrapping the sweet, then snickered and said, “Look, it has star-shaped sprinkles.  Just like you.”

Shutting his eyes wearily, Steve said, “Tony, that doesn’t even make sense.”

“Not with that attitude,” Tony said, tone slightly muffled as he enjoyed his treat, after all.

“Don’t get crumbs in bed,” Steve grumbled, keeping his eyes determinedly shut.  “It’s so early, Tony, why’re you still up?”

“Present,” Tony reminded.  Steve groaned.  “It’s a good one,” Tony said.  “Gee, a guy tries to make his best guy a suit, this is the thanks he gets?”

“You—”  Blinking, then grimacing at the bright light of the reactor, Steve covered it gently with a hand, blocking out the worst of the light.  “You got me a suit?”

“No,” Tony grumbled, still nibbling on his treat.  “I made you a suit.  Exceedingly more labor-intensive, and creative, and full of love.  You’re welcome.”

“Tony,” Steve said.  “That’s—”

“Really quite nice of me, deserving of praise, can’t wait to see it?  Mm-hm,” Tony said.  “These are addictive.  Did they put cocaine in them?”

Steve just said, “You’re really something else, you know that?”

Tony finished off his last bite, then nodded and said modestly, “Mm-hm.  I’m a beautiful something.  The most gorgeous something you’ve ever seen.  Legendary procurer of the famed Star-Spangled Ding-Dongs.”

“Please stop saying that,” Steve said.

“Absolutely not,” Tony replied.  “You can suck my—”

Rolling his eyes, Steve uncovered the reactor, slung an arm around Tony’s back, and hauled him close, teddy-bearing him.  Tony muffled against his shoulder, “—Ding-Dongs.”

“Shh.  Bedtime.”

“My bed.  My rules.”  Kicking Steve’s leg lightly, Tony said, “This is internment.”

Humming, Steve said, “Take it up with management.”

“Ooh.  Maybe I will.  I could sue your ass.  I could—”

“Tony,” Steve sighed, deep, from the soul.  “Please.  I’m beggin’ you.”

“Well, it is a good look,” Tony simpered.  “I would like to politely submit a request for more of it in the—”

Letting out a deep sigh, Steve gently ignored him, and was almost asleep when he heard an unembellished, “Steve?”

“Mm?”

“I love you.”

Kissing the top of Tony’s head, Steve replied, “I love you, too.  Now go to sleep or I’ll kick you and your Ding-Dongs out.”

“Ouch,” Tony said.  “Don’t knock ‘em ‘til you—”

“Tony.”

“I am completely unconscious, please leave a message.”

Content, Steve waited until he actually heard Tony’s breathing even out into snoring territory, and then sank back into sleep, mildly terrified of the day that awaited him—God only know what Tony’s fabulous mind could conjure—but excited, nonetheless. 

. o .

July 4, 2018

“Happy BIRTHDAY dear CAAAAAP, happy BIRTHDAY to YOUUUU!!”

Covering a grimace with a smile, Steve said, “All right, all right, wrap it up!” as the gang held the final note, the flaming cake threatening to catch fire despite its frozen foundation.

“Make a wish!” Sam reminded behind his phone, recording the event “for posterity.”  Wasn’t everyday a gent turned a hundred, after all, and as he surveyed his terrifying bounty, Steve thought, God Almighty, I am a hundred years old today.  Whether he felt it or not didn’t matter to the rest of the world, which looked at Steve Rogers, born in 1918, as a centenarian.

Geez, Louise, he thought, quietly, in his head, where nobody would laugh about such a thing—silly even at its time, heaven only knew what people thought of it now—and drew in a breath.

I wish, he thought, and paused, aware of the eyes of his little family—his big family, getting bigger every year, including the likes of Sam Wilson and the Vision, who was struggling to turn off the lighter he had accidentally ignited—and thought, I wish for many more.

Blowing them out in one fell swoop, he stepped back to let Clint, the knife-wielding bandit, begin carving slices.  His hand was very steady and his apportionments fair, but Steve grinned at the unbidden memory of Pops Barnes carving jagged slices and insisting, There.  You’ll like it.

The picnic was nice—gave everyone plenty of breathing room, and it was always a nice day in the middle of summer, even when it rained, which it was surely going to with the overcast skies, adding a sense of playful urgency to Clint’s slicing-and-dicing delivery service—but Steve didn’t pay it much mind, turning his gaze to the little lake and the guy standing by it even as Peter Parker cheered, “Aw, yeah, I got the shield!”

“Got quite the family goin’ on,” Bucky said, facing the water.

“Mm-hm,” Steve agreed.  “Wouldn’t be the same without you.”

Bucky said carefully, “That’s a damn shame.”

Somberly, Steve told him, “I didn’t drag the kid outta the War, Buck.  I dragged you home.  Whoever you are—that’s what I want.”

“You’re a good man, Steve Rogers,” Bucky said, still facing the water.  “I don’t think I can be.”

“Everyone has to start over sometime,” Tony chimed in, stepping in between them with a slice of cake on a plate.  “Don’t miss out,” he warned, indicating his treat.  “First rule of being an opportunist—never miss an opportunity.”

“I wish I could do more than say sorry,” Bucky said, looking at Tony briefly, metal arm flexing.  “It might seem crazy, but—”

Tony leaned into Steve, saying delicately, “Rather not rain on this happy day, would you?”

“No,” agreed Bucky, sadly, seriously.

“Get you sorted out,” Tony said, looking at Steve and adding, “I trust you.”

“Thank you,” Steve said, honestly grateful for it, as Tony kissed his cheek before passing him the plate. 

“I’ll leave you to it,” he added, saluting and wandering off to get more cake.

“I’ve spent a lot of my life being . . . chased,” Bucky said carefully.  “I think I’d like to find somewhere I don’t have to run, just for a while.”

“Do what you gotta do, Buck,” Steve said, offering him the plate.  “I’m with ya.  ‘Til the end of the line.”

Bucky smirked, taking the plate and saying, “I remember you were smaller.  Musta been a heck of a growth spurt.”

“Yeah.  You could say that.”  Happy to see him, even if he wasn’t the Bucky Barnes of his childhood, Steve said, “I’m glad you’re here, Buck.”

“Not a bad place to land,” Bucky acknowledged, as near to me too as he could come without overselling it.  He wasn’t part of the family, not the same way that the others fell into it—and he might never be, a tired old warhorse like himself, eager for retirement—but he was family, of a different kind.  Like Peggy—sweet Peggy, and God, it still hurt to think of her.  “You okay?  You got that sad look.”

“That easy to read?”

“S’my job,” Bucky said, a familiar drawl that made Steve’s heart hurt an awful lot as he said simply:

“Just miss being kids sometimes, Buck.  When it was easy.”

“Easy’s . . . nice.  But—you found nice, too,” Bucky said, looking not at the water but at the arguing gang of Avengers, fighting over seconds, it seemed.  “You found nice.  You should keep it.”

“I will.”  Reaching out, resting a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, Steve said seriously, “I want you to have your happy ending.”

“I got mine,” Bucky drawled.  Holding up the cake, he said, “Get to eat my cake.  And . . . raise some goats, maybe.  Think that’d be nice.  I don’t wanna be part of this.  That,” he said, nodding at the big happy family, arguing more spiritedly by the moment.  “I just wanna be . . . alone.”

Steve thought about it, going off somewhere and being by himself, and admitted, “If it makes you happy, Buck.”

“I think it might, Steve,” Bucky said, never Stevie, never anything approaching an endearment, but—cordial.  Friendly.  Friends again.  “You’ll write.  Visit, won’t you?”

“Yeah,” Steve promised.  “Often.”

“Just don’t leave him too much,” Bucky said, as Tony tried to help the Vision turn off the two lighters he had in hand.  “Seems a bit like trouble waiting to happen.”

“My trouble,” Steve said, with a gripping amount of affection, heart-swelling and warm.  “I’ll be seein’ ya, punk.”

“Be seein’ ya, jerk,” Bucky echoed, natural as that, and it was so easy, in those moments, to believe it would all be the same, and yet, as Steve found his way over to the picnic table and helped a panicking Vision freeze long enough for them to free the lighters, he thought, We’re not the same.  But we don’t need to be.

They’d survived the end of the world together—deterred a mad titan’s dreams and destroyed the Infinity Stones in the process, preventing future catastrophes on a scale Steve did not like to imagine—and hardly anything seemed too big to face after that kind of excitement.

Hell, it was damned nice to finally sit down with a slice of cake by a tree, Tony leaning up against him and cheerfully digging into his own piece.  “So,” Tony propositioned, setting his paper plate aside and looking at Steve almost mischievously, “birthday boy.  What’s our next adventure?”

Steve smiled, took another bite of cake—careful to savor it, red velvet, a completely different recipe than his Ma had used and terribly sweet—and finally said, “Been thinkin’ it’s past time we took a vacation.”

Tony beamed.  “Really?”

“Mm-hm.”  Setting his plate on top of Tony’s, Steve said, “Somewhere warm.  Quiet.  Just you and me.”

“Oahu is stunning this time of year,” Tony said at once, buzzing with excitement.  “Rent a villa.  Buy a villa.  Right on the water.  A month?  Two months?  We’ve earned it,” he added, poking Steve in the chest at whatever expression he was making at the thought of disappearing for two months.  “Have you ever taken a vacation?”

“I went to the museum,” Steve defended.  “And the movies—”

“Two months,” Tony said firmly.  “Minimum.  God,” he said with relish.  “I can’t wait.  I’m packing tonight.  That suits the spirit of your birthday, right?”

“Sure,” Steve drawled.  “Can’t imagine anything—”  He smiled as Tony kissed him, quick and sweet, before saying playfully, “This a gift for you or me?”

“Both,” Tony said firmly, glancing over briefly as the Vision said loudly, Oh no, oh no, while wielding two knives.  “Somehow, I really thought the Ultron program would turn out more menacing,” he mused.  “But the defenders of Earth are supposed to be kid-friendly.  And, look, he’s got a knife.”

“Two knives,” Steve sighed, already getting up.  “C’mon.”

Groaning and letting Steve pull him upright, Tony said, “Parenting is exhausting.”

“Mr. Stark!” Peter Parker cheered.  “Vision has a KNIFE!”

“Oh dear,” Vision said again, as the knives began to glow red-hot.  “I am deactivating them, I am deactivating them—”

“Happy birthday to me,” Steve said, sighing and wandering over to help the poor AI out before he spontaneously rediscovered panic attacks.

Steve Rogers’ family was certainly not what he expected it to be—louder and brasher and more chaotic than even the Barnes’s.  And yet, in the end, it was all he needed to be happy.

And to have a very, very happy birthday, indeed.