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Bucky hates…well, everything, and that’s not a good sign for his birthday week. Because after all the awfulness and terribleness and other “ness-es,” he’d really like for something to go right. Especially if he has to turn—oh, gawd!—one hundred and nine years old. He writes out the word in his head because he’s that old. Old enough to have lived as long as that number that’s way too long.
Beyond irritated, Bucky throws himself onto his bed and prays for something he can’t quite name. Not death. That’s not what he’s thinking, but a state of oblivion might be okay for a while. Just blackness and quiet and peace, which is something he’s been chasing since forever.
“Even if my court-mandated therapist doesn’t believe me,” he grouses, his voice disappearing into the rumpled sheets and tangled blankets. He really hates making the bed.
A cheerful knock sounds at his door, and Bucky groans loudly. Sam’s voice, loud and brash as always, permeates the barrier.
“Barnes! Get your ass out here. I need to talk to you.”
“Go away!” he grumbles, his voice more growl than anything. He doesn’t have the energy to deal with Wilson today. He’s relentlessly cheerful, and when he’s not, he’s hard-nosed and grumpy as hell. Bucky has no desire to interact with either version today.
“Dude, don’t be your usual asshole self right now. I don’t have the time or patience. Come out here. I have something you need to see.”
For a moment, Bucky has every intention of ignoring him. He’s a grown ass man—a centenarian, if he’s being precise—and he doesn’t have to answer to anyone (except the U.S. government, and he’s not very good at doing that). Sam doesn’t have that much power, no matter if he’s the new Captain America or not. He’s just about to put some earplugs in and forget Sam exists, but a tiny piece of him wants some comfort, even if it’s from his snarky as hell partner for whom he’s developed a grudging respect.
Dragging himself from the bed, he stomps to the door. Jerking it open, he snaps, “What?!”
A chorus of screamed birthday greetings hits him like a freight train, and he staggers in the face of so much excitement. The entire Avengers crew is gathered outside his bedroom, including Steve, Tony, and Natasha, all of whom only bother making appearances during retirement when they damn well feel like it. Apparently, Bucky’s birthday is reason enough for them to show their faces.
“It—it’s not until Friday,” he sputters, not quite willing to accept that everyone’s gathered specifically to celebrate him. He’s not worth all the fuss. Surely.
“That’s why we’re doing it early, Buck,” Steve says with a blinding smile. “There’s nothing like an early surprise party to keep it a surprise, right?”
Still stunned, Bucky tries to form words into a coherent sentence, but it’s impossible. After the absolutely terrible day he’s had and a rough patch over the past few weeks, the well-wishes of his dearest friends and teammates melts his guarded heart a little. His eyes go hazy, and hot tears prick behind his lids when he blinks. He’s not going to cry—absolutely not!—but he is overly emotional for someone who didn’t feel any emotion besides terror for decades as the Winter Soldier.
Wanda reaches out and takes his forearm. With a gentle smile and kindness shining on her face, she leads him down the hall to the common area and guides him to a seat on the massive leather couch. A gargantuan pile of presents is stacked on the floor beside the coffee table, and a massive cake with his name and enough candles to be a fire hazard decorates it. There aren’t balloons (he despises them when they pop, anyway), but brightly colored streamers decorate the entire room and an enormous banner wishes him a happy birthday in shiny letters. The speed with which they must have decorated to accomplish all this in the few minutes he’d been alone in his room is impressive.
“Happy birthday, Barnes!” Clint calls from behind the bar. Thor’s with him, pouring champagne into multiple glasses while Bruce holds a shaker over his shoulder and makes a racket as the ice clacks against the metal.
“Thanks,” he replies, still rattled and inordinately touched by the efforts taken by his friends to celebrate him. “I didn’t expect this.”
“That’s the surprise of it, right?” Natasha points out with an infectious grin. When she leans in to give him a kiss, he closes his eyes and inhales deeply. He’s missed her, so her presence is a beautiful gift in and of itself. “You’re looking good, Barnes. Not that you haven’t ever. Well, you know, since escaping Hydra.”
He tugs at one of her ringlets and watches the red lock spring back into shape. “Always so complimentary. Much appreciated.”
“Well, you know me,” she teases with a wink. “Just doing what I can to show you love.”
Overwhelmed, Bucky looks around and feels heat welling in his chest, behind his eyes, and on his cheeks. He’s sure he’s blushing, and he’s only slightly embarrassed by it. This has to be one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for him. Even the small celebrations the Howling Commandos used to engage in pale in comparison. The fact that Steve is here makes him all gooey inside since he’s been adamant that his time with the Avengers has come to an end. Yet, he showed up for Bucky, his oldest friend.
“Presents!” Sam crows because that’s how Sam does everything, and the others crowd around him with smiles and cheers.
“Mine first,” Natasha insists.
Inside the carefully wrapped present is a treasure trove of Russian candy, delicacies, and other paraphernalia that were rare treats while they lived and trained in the Soviet Union. There weren’t too many things that even hinted at good from that time, but the occasional piece of candy had offered flashes of light in the dark.
“Thank you,” Bucky says softly because he’s choked up at her thoughtfulness. Blinking moisture from his eyes, he takes the gift Sam hands him.
The next few minutes pass in a blur of shouted exclamations from his friends, the sound of tearing paper, and way too many emotions burning inside him. Every present reflects the connection he has with each of the Avengers and the special way he’s seen by them. It’s too much for him, and he’s in shambles by the time Steve gives him a crooked grin and passes him a slim box.
“From the old days.”
Bucky’s fingers tremble as he turns the present over in his hands. Blood rushes in his ears because memories of his childhood bombard him more than they have in decades. For so long, he couldn’t even remember Steve or his younger years in Brooklyn. Now, it seems that Steve’s gift is designed to take him back to the past. When he opens the package, he finds a small leather-bound book. He freezes, his mind whirring, as memories flood him.
“Is this…?”
He can’t say anymore because he knows it is. Somehow, Steve’s tracked down the journal Bucky kept when he was a teenager and hid under his mattress so that no one would find it. With shaky hands, Bucky flips through the leaves. His slanted handwriting fills page after page, cataloguing the escapades Steve and he used to engage in when they were young. Neither of them was naïve, but the cynicism he feels now makes the Bucky on those pages seem like a rube.
“I thought you might want to remember better times,” Steve offers in explanation. “I found it when I went through a box the Smithsonian gave me once they were finished with the exhibit. Then, you— Well, I kind of forgot about it afterward. There were a lot of things going on for a while, but retirement gave me some time to take care of things I’ve been putting off for a while. I found it again and figured you’d like to have it.”
Blinking furiously, Bucky nods. Steve’s given him the gift of his memory without having to go through the pain of sorting through the unpleasant ones and wondering if his mind is playing tricks on him. It’s the best gift he’s ever received, rivaled only by the gathering of all his co-workers and friends.
Unable to speak above a whisper, Bucky says, “Thank you. All of you. Somehow, I don’t mind turning 109.”
“Practically still a spring chicken,” Sam teases and claps Bucky on his shoulder.
Laughter erupts around him, and he hugs his journal to his chest. For the first time since he escaped Hydra, he feels like he’s part of the team in more than just a functional manner. For the first time in decades, he feels like he actually belongs. Eyes moist, Bucky takes a piece of cake with a crooked smile. The sugar on his tongue feels like heaven. Belonging is even better.