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“Hey, Stevie.”
Steve looked up from his spot on the couch. He’d been sketching while Bucky had his meeting with his well-reputed, highly recommended, and thoroughly investigated therapist. It was an ordeal, finding someone they could trust, but so far things seemed to be going well, and Bucky even admitted to liking Dr. Breskin, despite his previous convictions that all “shrinks” were “hacks.” Steve was just glad that Bucky was sleeping more, and his eyes were less haunted during his waking hours.
Of course, right now, there was something in Bucky’s voice, a slight hesitation, and a quiet insecurity that he’d heard so rarely back before the war. And the “Stevie.” Once, Bucky had called him that for any number of reasons--flirting, teasing, exasperation, affection. Lately, Bucky used the name as more of a security blanket. Something he said when he felt unsure of himself, unsure of this world, unsure of them and their new life here.
So Steve smiled, big and wide, and as true as he knew to be. “Hey, Buck.” He closed up his sketch book and tucked the pencil into the spiral binding. “Everything go all right?” A quick glance at the clock let him see that it was a few minutes past the hour. It wasn’t like Bucky to stay late.
“Yeah. Um . . .” He had his metal hand shoved into the pocket of his jeans, his right hand running through his hair, pulling a bit at the length of it. Looking everywhere but at Steve, he took a deep breath--something Steve knew he did to center himself. “Ready to go?”
“Ready when you are,” Steve said, patient, always careful to do things on Bucky’s terms on days like this.
They walked out of the office building, taking a left and heading back towards Brooklyn. It was a long walk, but neither of them minded, and the time outside, the simple exercise, always seemed to help Bucky clear his head, collect his thoughts.
Sometimes this was the hardest part of Steve’s day. Waiting. Watching. Hoping. He could see the wheels turning in Bucky’s head, his mind racing with whatever thoughts had been brought up during his session. It was difficult, not asking. Days like this one were better, easier. Bucky seemed calm, if not at peace. There were other days, days when he remembered things that had been done to him, things he had done--things he’d been forced to do, Steve would remind him--and Bucky would be angry and lash out. Three weeks ago Steve had been called into his therapist’s office in the middle of a session to help contain Bucky after a line of discussion had led to a flashback and subsequent memory lapse. It broke Steve’s heart every time he had to hold Bucky down, protect him from himself, but he would do it as many times as he had to. Till the end of the line. That’s what they’d always said, and he meant it.
He knew Bucky did too. Even on the days when Bucky insisted that Steve forget about him, move on, leave him and his broken mind behind.
Those were the bad days.
Steve wasn’t afraid of bad days. Instead, he would remind Bucky of all the times he’d seen Steve through impossible days, moments of delirium, and bouts of crippling illness.
Days like today though--these days had their own share of hardship. Simpler, but no less capable of bringing an ache to Steve’s heart. As they walked, he wanted so badly to reach out, to take Bucky’s hand, lace their fingers together. He wanted to kiss his temple as an act of reassurance, wanted to smile against Bucky’s cheek and whisper “I love you” in his ear.
But he couldn’t. Because for all the things Bucky remembered, both good and bad, it didn’t seem that Bucky had remembered that. That once they had shared such moments, stolen and private acts of affection, a love that they kept safe behind closed doors.
Steve wouldn’t push. He would wait. And if Bucky never remembered, then that was all right too. As long as he had Bucky, in any capacity, as a part of his life, he was happy.
He was so lost in his own thoughts about things, it took him a moment to realize that Bucky was no longer walking beside him. His best friend had stopped, just a few feet back, looking over the storefront of a local convenience store. The signs in the windows boasted reasonably priced milk, a variety of sodas and candies, cigarettes, and even basic electronic needs.
“Buck?”
“Yeah.” He sounded only half present, just as lost in his thoughts as Steve had been not a minute ago.
“You okay? You need something?”
“I--Yeah. Yeah, I just need to run in and grab something.”
“Okay. Want me to come in with you?”
“No,” he said it rather quickly, then shook his head a bit and looked over at Steve. He smiled, but while it seemed genuine, there was something else behind it. Nerves? Uncertainty? “Nah. I’m good. I’ll just be a minute.”
“Okay.”
And so Steve watched Bucky go in through the door, trying not to let his own thoughts get carried away. Bucky had only recently started venturing off on his own, even for short little errands like this one. This was good. Bucky was good. It was Steve’s own problem that he could barely stand being away from Bucky even for a few minutes. He’d spent so many years thinking everyone was gone, Bucky was gone, that having Bucky back still felt like a dream.
It was something he often spoke about with his own therapist. He was working on it.
Patiently waiting outside was part of the process.
Bucky returned, not five minutes later, a pack of Luckys in his hand, one cigarette already between his lips as he lit it.
Steve was torn. He knew now that smoking wasn’t healthy (even with the serum, it probably still wasn’t the best of choices), but he would never deny Bucky something that brought him comfort, and besides--it smelled like home.
“Got what you needed?”
Bucky nodded, blowing the smoke from his lungs. “Yup. I think so.”
That was kind of an odd answer, but Steve told himself not to worry about it. Two cigarettes later and their walk was complete, their apartment cool and inviting as they stepped out of the early summer air. Steve immediately headed towards the kitchen. “So what do you want for lunch?” They had some leftovers in the fridge, but Steve thought maybe those would make a better dinner. He felt like something fresh, and he felt like cooking.
“Close your eyes.”
“What?” Steve turned, intending to question Bucky on that very strange answer, and found himself staring into stormy grey eyes, his best friend less than two feet in front of him. He blinked. “Oh,” he said stupidly.
Bucky’s hands were behind his back, his jaw showing a bit of tension. “Close your eyes.”
Steve leaned back against the counter, hands at the edges. “Okay.” He did as asked. Trusting. He always trusted Bucky, and he made sure never to hesitate so that Bucky knew it. “Can I ask why?”
“I got you a present.” Bucky’s took a single step closer; Steve felt the air move, heard the linoleum squeak.
“A present? Did I forget something important?” It wasn’t the anniversary of anything, and Steve’s birthday had been the week before. Bucky had bought him the sketch pad he’d been drawing in earlier.
“Belated birthday gift.”
“You didn’t have to get me anything else, Buck. You didn’t have to get me anything in the first place.”
“Just--” Bucky started to say something, then stopped and started again. “Just keep your eyes closed.”
“Okay.”
Time seemed to slow down, or even to stop altogether. Steve didn’t know what Bucky was up to, but with each passing breath he started to worry more and more that something was wrong--so eventually he just stopped breathing.
Then he felt someone else’s breath against his lips. Bucky’s.
Steve’s heart slammed to a halt. His lungs gasped, forcing him to breathe again.
Then he felt Bucky’s mouth brush against his; light at first, unsure. Steve breathed again, and Bucky moved with him, tongue making a cautious move.
He tasted like cigarettes--and chocolate.
Steve’s eyes flew open.
Bucky stared back at him, still close, their noses bumping in a familiar, but long-lost way. “Happy Birthday, Steve.”
In 1937 he’d said the same thing, under the pier at Coney Island, on the Fourth of July, while everyone else in the world had been distracted by fireworks and spectacle. Bucky’d been smoking all night, but had bought Steve a couple of Hershey Kisses for his birthday. When he’d kissed him then, for the first time, he’d tasted just as he had now.
Steve had never forgotten. It had been a sensory memory that had stayed with him long after the train, after the ice, after awaking in this new world, and after the helicarrier.
“You remember.”
“I remember.”
Steve closed his eyes against the tears that welled up, his hands reaching for Bucky’s waist, needing him closer, needing to touch him the way he’d been dreaming of every night since the battle on the highway . . .
His fingers brushed against hard muscle behind thin cotton, and he felt Bucky’s hand at his back, pressing them close, and closer still.
Then they were kissing again, and he tasted salt and tears with cigarettes and chocolate.