Chapter Text
Bucky wonders if he will ever be normal.
He was a lot of things before Afghanistan. Fearless, careless, and carefree, and if he had a compass that pointed north, north was always trouble. He was smart, too, smart and dependable even though he liked to cross boundaries. Life wasn’t easy, per say, but Bucky usually found the glass to be half full. If it wasn’t, he made it that way because people make their own luck and create their own destinies. He believed that, and he lived by it. He laughed and fucked and lived, and he did it all with vigor.
And then he had his arm blown off in a desert thousands of miles from home, and a part of him was literally and figuratively left there, dusted with sand and more sand until he was pretty sure he’d never be able to find it again even if he had a bulldozer.
That’s why he’s sitting in his friend’s basement on the Fourth of July while everyone else is outside, sinking back into the cushions of a well-worn couch he hopes will swallow him whole.
Once upon a time, James Buchanan Barnes would be lighting the fireworks with the rest of them, but now he’s too jumpy, and he hates it. He hates himself. He doesn’t want any of them to see him flinch, doesn’t want a particularly loud or unexpected bang to send him to the floor with his real arm and his fake arm thrown over his head. He doesn’t want the pitying looks or the sudden silence that always follows.
So, even though Natasha, the stubborn boar that she is, forced him to come to the celebration, he sits by himself and wishes he’d thought to bring a few beers down with him. He doesn’t like to overdue the drinking; when he got back, all of his other coping mechanisms had gone to shit, so he’d drowned himself in beer and cheap vodka until Nat had literally beaten some sense into him. He drinks occasionally now but tries to avoid it when he’s stressed because he doesn’t want to fall back into bad habits.
He could really use a beer, though.
He’s strongly considering sneaking out to the yard to rifle through the cooler and smuggle down some beverages when there’s a loud bang and then muffled cheering from the direction of the festivities. Bucky huddles back into the cushions, closes his eyes, and inhales. He holds his breath for ten seconds like his therapist recommended, and then he exhales slowly.
When he opens his eyes, there’s a blonde guy standing in the doorway, blue eyes wide. He’s tall and muscled with a baby face, and it throws Bucky off. No one with biceps like that should also wear khakis and a button up.
“I’m sorry,” the man says, and his voice trembles so slightly Bucky almost misses it. “I didn’t realize anyone was down here.”
Bucky sits up straighter. He doesn’t know this guy, doesn’t know half of the people Nat invited over, but somewhere in his mind, a voice yells same, so Bucky tries to smile. “It’s cool,” he manages, grateful that his voice is steady. “Just taking a breather from the crowd, you know?”
The other man nods and just stands there.
“You wanna sit?” Bucky offers with a raised brow.
The man looks relieved. “If you don’t mind.”
He sits down at the other end of the couch, and Bucky angles towards him, glad his left arm is somewhat obstructed from view. He actually likes this arm better than the old one. Skin-colored, stiff prosthetics creep Bucky out, so when one of Nat’s fancy government friends got him in to a robotics trial, he jumped at the opportunity. The hook up hurt way more than just hoisting on a regular prosthetic since his nerves had to be literally connected like a goddamned USB cable to the new metal arm, but once that was over and he started to acclimate to how it functioned, it was a dream.
People focus on it more, though, and they’re less likely to be tactful about asking questions, which annoys Bucky like hell. He may have been a punk of a kid growing up, but his mother taught him manners.
“I’m Steve,” the other guy says, derailing Bucky’s thoughts. He holds out his right hand. “Steve Rogers. I’m a friend of Sam’s.”
Bucky takes the hand— hard, warm, firm— shakes. “Bucky Barnes. I’m Nat’s friend.”
Steve raises his eyebrows. “You’re Bucky?”
“Whatever she told you was a lie,” Bucky says with an easy grin, and he thinks about how this is the first time he’s smiled all night and meant it.
And then some more fireworks shatter his calm.
He flinches and presses back against the couch cushions because even if they’re stuffed with feathers, something behind him is better than nothing. He closes his eyes and inhales, counts to three before he remembers he isn’t alone.
Steve is hunched over, forehead nearly at his knees, and his fingers threaded through his hair. Bucky can’t see his face, but he knows, just knows that the other man is struggling against the same fight or flight response that courses through Bucky.
“They’re just fireworks, Steve,” he says calmly, hoping the pep talk he gives himself in his head will sound as good out loud. “Nothing to worry about, you know? Just fireworks. Probably those ones that have a toy soldier on a parachute in them. You ever shoot those off as a kid? Then you had to fight all the other kids for it when it was landing.”
Steve turns his head to look at Bucky. He’s pale and his lips are pulled down at the corners, and Bucky thinks he’s about to tell Bucky to shove it— Bucky knows the feeling, has done it before in an attempt to get well-meaning people to shut up so he can wrangle his thoughts— but understanding dawns in Steve’s eyes. “Captain Steve Rogers, home for three months.”
“Sergeant Bucky Barnes, home for thirteen months,” Bucky replies quietly. “Good to meet you, Cap.”
“James!”
They both jump and turn towards the door. Natasha appears a moment later and leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest. She gives Bucky a look, red curls falling into her face. “We talked about this, James.”
“I’m not hiding, per say,” Bucky begins with an easy grin.
“Bullshit,” she replies and arches a brow. “I saved you some sparklers, you little shit.”
Bucky laughs and feels the remainder of his tension ease away. He doesn’t allow anyone else to give him shit about his newfound antisocial ways, but Natasha, she gets it. She doesn’t treat him with kid gloves, just calls him out and tells him he’s stronger than the fear. Sometimes she also tells him he’s an idiot, and he appreciates that, too. She keeps him honest.
“Oh, you shouldn’t have.” He nods towards his couch companion. “I was just talking to Steve. You know, making friends, like you tell me to.”
Natasha’s eyes travel to Steve and her second eyebrow arches to match the first. “I was wondering where you disappeared to, Steve,” she says warmly, but there’s a quirk to her lips. “Sam was looking for you.”
“I was trying to find the bathroom,” Steve says and smiles, cheeks dimpling. “I ran in to Bucky, though, and we started talking.”
“Well, I’m glad you two are being so friendly and all—“ She bears her teeth in a smile that fools everyone else, but Bucky knows she’s trying to egg him on. “—it’s time for cake, birthday boy.”
Bucky’s eyes widen. “It’s your birthday?”
Steve honest-to-God blushes. “Yeah.”
“Hey, Captain America!”
Steve groans.
Bucky is able to hold the laugh back, but he can’t help the grin he’s losing against. “Captain America, huh?”
Steve doesn’t reply, just pouts, and Bucky’s stomach tightens.
Sam, Natasha’s next-door neighbor, appears in the doorway, as well. He’s dark skinned and lean, and Bucky isn’t sure he’s ever seen Sam not smiling. It was actually Sam who sobered him up a little less than a year ago when he found Bucky passed out drunk on Natasha’s front porch, soaked from the rain, and when Bucky was coherent enough, it was Sam who said, “You’re not alone, man.”
Bucky believes in making his own luck, sure, but he still thanks his lucky stars that Natasha’s neighbor not only happened to find him that night, but also happened to work for Veteran’s Affairs. Bucky’s pretty sure he’d be in someone’s gutter by now if not for the Sam.
Sam’s grinning now, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “You can’t stop it, Steve. It’s going to happen.”
“I’m not eating that monstrosity of a cake you bought.”
“But it’s so patriotic!” Sam says and does some jazz fingers. “We’re gonna put sparklers on it, Rogers. Come on.”
“Sparklers? You guys know I love sparklers,” Bucky says as he stands and stretches. He looks down in time to watch Steve’s gaze travel the length of his torso from hips to chest before he looks away. Bucky swallows. “I mean, cake, yeah, but who can say no to sparklers?”
“We’re gonna sing so loud, man,” Sam says with a grin and throws an arm around around Steve when he reluctantly stands and shuffles towards the door.
Sam and Steve head up the stairs, but Natasha stops Bucky from following with a hand on his arm.
“You’re okay?” she asks, no softness or hesitation, just a question.
Bucky nods. “Yeah. Well, mostly.”
“Mostly?”
Bucky nudges her with his metal elbow, which she loops her hand through. “You didn’t tell me you were friends with that.”
“Oh, Steve?” she says innocently, but when Bucky looks at her, she’s grinning. “I didn’t think he was your type.”
He rolls his eyes. “Natalia, that man is everyone’s type. I mean, look at him Just look at him..”
Nat sniggers and they head up the stairs and out the backdoor in time to watch Sam light the sparklers on the cake. The cake is… well, everyone is cackling, including Sam who is laughing so hard he almost sets himself on fire twice. The behemoth pastry is three tiered, frosted red, white, and blue, decorated with stars, and has Steve’s face on the side with “Happy Birthday Captain America” written below it. Sam begins to sing happy birthday and Steve, blushing, stands there with his hands clasped in front of him, rocking on his heels. Everyone joins in.
Bucky can’t sing for shit, but does anyway, Natasha still holding on to his arm. As the song comes to a close, Steve smiles and nods, muttering things like “great” and “you guys are the best” and “I hate my birthday.” When his gaze settles on Bucky, he just smiles, and then he blows out the sparklers.