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“So, what do you think, Cap?”
The woman’s hand is on Steve’s shoulder, and his three-piece suit is stuffy and uncomfortable, and every single word about her potential defense contract is white noise. He tries to remember her name – she’s the wife of Colonel something or other – and her hand is still on his shoulder.
“It sounds great ma’am,” he says, channeling the old-fashioned soldier so many people still believe he is. He shrugs her hand off of him and smiles, fake and placating.
This party is, on its face, for his birthday. A benefit dinner for the veteran’s programs in the Stark Industries charity. He forgets what name they put on the invitation – if it’s a 4th of July celebration or for his birthday specifically – but it doesn’t matter. Really, it’s an excuse for corporate bigwigs and government officials to rub elbows and talk shop. All of it is cloaked in the dull gray haze of doublespeak. Men, indistinguishable from the last Brooks Brothers suit and receding hairline, ask him about supporting veterans, but are really asking for absolution for their last for-profit war. As if Steve could give them that.
He hates it. He doesn’t belong here, in all its politicking and fakery. He wouldn’t have gone at all if not for the money they’d raise. He can handle donning a monkey suit and smiling for a few hours, if only to help out the people who’ve served. He’ll one day be a veteran too. He gets it, how hard it is to adjust to a civilian existence and how much support is necessary.
Still. He doesn’t have to like it. Too many people act familiar with him, and are so, so touchy. He can still feel the ghost of the woman’s hand on his shoulder and some businessman’s touch on the small of his back.
She’s still smiling at him, waiting for a response. Steve has to leave – just for a second, catch his breath. He smiles again then takes a step backwards, extricating himself from the conversation. “I’m sorry,” Steve lies, “I have to go to the bathroom.”
At least he’s not the only fish out of water. One wife, visibly a decade younger than her husband, tosses back too much champagne. In the back of the room, an assistant stands out of place in an ill-fitting suit next to the table of hors d'oeuvres.
He looks around for somewhere empty to take a brief respite and finds a balcony off the side of the ballroom, door half hidden by a heavy, velvet blue curtain. It looks deserted enough, everyone else still mingling inside. He slips out and puts his back to the wall, closes his eyes and takes a few deliberate breaths. Summer heat presses on him at all sides, but it’s a welcome presence. He fiddles with his sleeve. The scratchy texture is nice for this at least. He calms down.
When he opens his eyes, he finds that the balcony isn’t as deserted as he thought. The curtains hid another man from view. He’s standing off to the corner, leaning forward with his elbows on the railing.
He holds a cigarette between dexterous fingers and takes a drag. The smoke dissipates into the evening air. In his other hand is a lighter, a silver one made of scratched up metal, not a cheap plastic one. A stylized “B” is engraved on its side.
Steve can’t pinpoint who he is. He isn’t in a suit like the other attendees, but he isn’t in the uniform the staff wear. He’s dressed in a black button up and fitted black trousers, clinging to every inch of infinite legs. Dark hair tied into a tight bun. Elegant wrists and plush lips curled around smoke. Sharp cheekbones and thoughtful blue-grey eyes, half shut and gazing.
Steve stands next to him, mimicking his posture and leaning against the railing, a few feet between them to be polite. Not close enough that conversation is demanded, but instead remains possible. An option, not a requirement.
His companion turns towards him, an open cigarette box tipped towards him in offering. His head is cocked to the side. Steve nods and takes one, borrowing the lighter when it’s offered too. Nicotine doesn’t work on him anymore. His enhanced metabolism breaks it down before it can affect him, but he still enjoys the ritual. The smoke is an ashy heat in his lungs and he can feel it expand into the space inside chest.
No one speaks for a few minutes. It’s a comfortable silence, just breathing in the same space as another person. Steve counts the cars that pass on the street underneath. There aren’t many – everyone else presumably occupied by their own Fourth of July celebrations. He glances at his watch. There are a few hours left until the fireworks go up and he’s finally 30. Or 96, depending on how you count.
“–want one?”
Steve startles, looking at his companion. “Sorry, what?”
“I said, do you want another?” He nods at the cigarette Steve is holding, now smoked down to its stubby, orange filter. His voice is low and rough, scratchy with lived-through stories and experience.
Steve feels goosebumps lift from his forearms. He wants to know who he is, why he’s here. The handsome stranger, alone in the dark. He takes one, allows the stranger to light it. “Well, it couldn’t hurt. Thanks.”
“So,” Steve asks, “who are you? Nothing better to do on a holiday?” The words are clunky and awkward in his mouth. He hasn’t had to ask anyone that question tonight. They all took the liberty of introducing themselves before he had to, always a title, then a name and a thrust-out hand.
“Bucky,” he replies, tapping the engraving on his lighter. “‘S my name. I’m just on a break.” He glances at his watch. “I’ll go in again in a bit. Just needed to hide for a while.”
“Steve,” he introduces himself, then takes another drag of his cigarette. He neglects to add his last name. Bucky must be a plus-one or a member of the staff if he didn’t already know who Steve was. For now, he’ll keep it that way. “Me too. Hiding, I mean. From the party or something else?”
Bucky turns towards him, lifting an eyebrow in mild curiosity. “Something else. I’m supposed to be managing the pastries right now.” The left corner of his lips tugs upwards. “Don’t tell anybody I’m slacking. You’re out here too – you get it. How about you?”
“Hiding from the party. Too many people talking. Politics. Agendas. Campaigns. You get the drill.” Steve kicks the ground, scuffing an expensive leather shoe. He tips his head at the party, still as loud as it was earlier. “And I’ll keep your secret. In exchange for the smoke. The pastries can distribute themselves.”
“I do – get it, I mean.” Bucky watches his movements carefully. “I don’t envy you. I remember having to do the whole song and dance with superiors and officers and whatever. Cakes are better company.”
“I don’t doubt that.” Steve takes his form in again, looking for clues about who he is. To his knowledge, bakers don’t have superiors. Thick arms, strong thighs obvious in his clothes. “I thought you were a pastry chef?”
“I wasn’t always.” Bucky gives him a lazy salute. “Sergeant Barnes at your service. I was on track to becoming an officer. Decided to make cakes instead.”
“So what now? You work for a catering company?” Steve can imagine Bucky in a uniform, but admittedly, he prefers him as he is now. He thinks of his own future if – when – he leaves the service.
Bucky shakes his head. “Nope. I’m filling in for a friend. I run a bakery a few blocks from here, actually. He had better things to do, parties and barbecues and such. So I’m here instead.”
“And you didn’t?” Steve asks, “have anything better to do than work?” He doubts it. Bucky said friend earlier – no way he didn’t get invited to a single party.
“Nope. I’d just be home with my cat anyway. I like to be busy on days like these. I uh – ” he pauses to take another drag of his cigarette, looking away from him and up at the sky. “I’m not the biggest fan of fireworks. Explosions. Busy is better.”
“I get that,” Steve says, and silence descends on them once again.
Steve smokes his cigarette down to the filter again, then puts it out on the ashtray mounted to the railing. When Bucky offers him the box, he declines it. Bucky follows suit soon after, and doesn’t light another cigarette. He pockets the box and his lighter, and they disappear like magic into the clean lines of his trousers.
Bucky doesn’t say anything, but he does look at Steve as his cigarette dies out. His eyes rove like they see something unnamed. His gaze isn’t critical or uncomfortable though, just warm in the places it lands. Steve lets himself be seen.
“What about you? Not enjoying the party?”
Steve isn’t enjoying it. He could say that and nothing else, but he doesn’t. He tugs at his collar, loosening his tie and undoing the top button.
He doesn’t know what compels him to answer truthfully. Perhaps it’s that he doesn’t have an agenda. Everyone else in the party does. They want Cap’s approval for an experimental weapons project, or to angle for another government contract. Or, they just want him, desire told in trailing glances and hands in places where they shouldn’t be. They want some version of him anyway, physically attractive and immortalized in their childhood comics and high school history classes.
“No,” Steve says, “not really.” He rubs at his nape. “The party’s for me, actually. Kind of. It’s my birthday.”
For a moment, Bucky’s face is calculating. He peers inside the party as if it holds answers. Looks at the decor, the waiters wandering around with heavy-bottomed glasses of whiskey and crystal flutes of champagne. Then, his eyes blow open in realization. That’s it. He’s figured out who Steve is.
Steve waits for the questions, inevitable once his identity is revealed. Some people, the ones who claim to know him on some deep personal level, who scavenge for traces of him in museum galleries and history books, dare to ask if he’s lonely. He wonders what Bucky will ask about – the serum, maybe, or World War II.
Bucky’s expression turns gentle. This spells doom – gentleness is two steps away from pity. Steve waits for his questions and tries not to tense up.
“This is a shit present, isn’t it?”
–What?
“Present?”
“That.” Bucky points at the party. “No one wants that for a birthday party.”
Steve begins to object, out of politeness than anything he truly believes. “Well, it’s for a good cause and the donations are in my na–”.
“–How old are you turning?” Bucky interrupts him.
“Um. 30. Or 96.”
“30, huh?” He muses. “That’s a nice, round number.” Something sparks behind his eyes and he lifts up a finger. “Wait here. Give me five minutes. I have an idea.”
Bucky rushes off before Steve has a chance to stop him. He wonders what kind of ideas Bucky’s cooked up. Anything would be fine, really. His birthday doesn’t really matter anymore, and he has to join the party again in a while anyway. The last time he’s celebrated turning older was decades ago, with people long since dead.
Bucky turns up a few minutes later with something held behind his back. “Close your eyes.”
“Sorry?”
“Close your eyes,” Bucky insists. “C’mon, it’s birthday etiquette. And make a wish.”
Steve huffs out a breath, but humors him. “Fine,” he says, closing his eyes. “You didn’t have to get me anything, y’know? We met like, fifteen minutes ago.”
“Hush. Too much talking, not enough wishing.”
Steve hears Bucky’s lighter flick open. He must’ve found a candle somewhere.
“Are you wishing?”
His lips threaten to curl into a small smile. “I’m trying! Wishes need quiet.” Steve doesn’t know what to wish for, and he doesn’t know if he believes in wishes anyway. Still, if Bucky went through this trouble for a virtual stranger, he owes it to him to try.
He doesn’t really want for anything anymore, not in any real way. In younger years, he might have wished for strength to protect people, but he has that now. Money isn’t an issue either; the back pay he’s accumulated over seventy years makes sure of that. Bucky is the only thing that comes to mind. He doesn’t put it into words, but he wishes to know this stranger long enough to call him a friend. (And maybe, in time, be even more than that.)
“I made a wish.”
“Open your eyes.”
Bucky is holding a chocolate cupcake. It’s unfrosted and its top is uneven, clearly a reject, but it looks delicious. He topped it with a sparkling candle, firing beads of light in every direction. It’s the best gift Steve’s gotten in years. The back of his throat clogs with heavy emotion.
“Thanks, Bucky,” he manages.
Bucky looks down at the cupcake. “I know it’s not much but uh –” he thrusts it forward at Steve, sparkler still going. “It’s still the Fourth of July, right? So, fireworks. Just for you.”
Steve takes the cupcake from Bucky and removes the sparkler, which has died by now. He keeps the dead stick in pocket instead of throwing it away. “Do you want to share?”
Bucky nods and they split the cupcake in half. It’s moist and tender and the chocolate carries a bitter hint of coffee with it – it’s delicious.
It takes a few minutes before Steve can speak without the threat of tears. “I used to celebrate my birthday with my ma,” he says in a barely audible whisper. “When I was still young enough to believe it, she’d tell me that the fireworks were just for me.” Steve thumbs the dead sparkler in his pocket. “Thanks for the fireworks, Bucky.”
“You’re welcome.” Bucky smiles at him. It’s shy, barely there, but it’s sincere. He looks down at his shoes, hiding the faint blush that has erupted across his cheeks. “Happy Birthday.”
They finish the cupcake in comfortable silence. The first few fireworks go off, likely the prelude to a real show, and they watch them together. Slowly, they inch closer and closer together, the distance getting eaten away until Steve can brush the back of his hand against Bucky’s. He savors that little spot of contact.
Later, when the skies are quiet again and the fireworks have gone away for the moment, a woman with bright red lipstick and an apron around her waist knocks at the door to the balcony. Bucky recognizes her, meeting her eyes, and holds up his index finger. One minute.
“So I have to go,” Bucky says. He doesn’t move away. “That was Darcy. She’s calling me.”
A heaviness sinks to the bottom of Steve’s gut. “That’s okay. Thanks for staying with me for a while. And for the cupcake. I have to rejoin the party too–” he jerks his thumb at the door.
He takes a fortifying breath, gathering courage.
“Can I see you agai–”
“Could I have your numbe–”
“Of course–”
“It’s 224–”
Their words stumble over each other on awkward kitten feet. Steve runs a hand through his hair. He lets Bucky speak first.
“So I know the owner of a bakery just a few blocks from here,” Bucky starts.
“Yeah?”
“And I heard he has a thing for strays who like to bum cigarettes.”
“Sounds like an interesting guy.” Steve knows where this is going, and plays along.
“And he makes great cupcakes. With sparklers.”
Steve nods. Bucky has the nicest hair. He wonders what it looks like when it’s not tied up. How the strands would feel against his fingers.
Bucky rolls his eyes. “Okay. How long are you going to draw this out?”
Steve grins. It’s his first real smile of the night. He raises his hands up in surrender. “Fine. Is this your way of asking me out?”
“Sure it is. Only if you want it to be”
“Oh, I want.” Steve’s lips form a shark smile. It’s already his second of the night.
“Great,” Bucky says, taking a few steps back and beginning to make his way to the door. He grins back, “So, I’ll see you later?”
Steve’s eyes watch him leave, his graceful long strides. “You will. I’ll find you.”
****
Hours later, Steve stands under the gauzy yellow light of a streetlamp, outside the backdoor of the venue. He can still hear the sounds of the party winding down. Glasses clinking, shuffling feet, the click of heels. Elsewhere, the boisterous laughter of drunk party-goers and the booming past-midnight fireworks. He waits for Bucky to come out, and despite the stink of garbage festering in summer heat and the terrible party, he thinks this may still be a good birthday.
The door squeaks open on old hinges and Bucky comes out. He’s shed the button up, dressed instead in beat-up white sneakers and a t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up for the heat.
“You ready? Bucky holds out a hand for Steve to take.
Steve nods. Their hands fit together like they were made for it. “Yeah. I’m ready.”
Yes. This is a happy birthday after all.