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It was the first real warm day of spring in Washington DC. Creeping in like a promise that nobody expected to keep. February had been cruel— snow storms and gray skies, winds that bit through scarves and raised coat collars, and for Bucky it represented endless committee hearings where he would sit in a suit trying to pretend that his tie wasn’t silently trying to strangle him. Congressman James Buchanan Barnes, retired Winter Soldier and reluctant politician, had spent the morning nodding and trying to smile through a briefing on transportation infrastructure while his mind wandered to anything but bridges and funding allocations.
His phone buzzed softly under the table. He tapped on the message and the screen lit up with a photo from you: a selfie of you smiling and holding a bright yellow daffodil as you leaned against the window. Sunlight poured in around you, surrounding you in a warm glow. Another message followed shortly.
It's warm. Like, actually warm. Ditch the suit?
He stared at the screen far longer than he should have. The daffodil's trumpet shape looked defiant, like it had pushed through frozen dirt just to prove a point. But it was the shape of your lips pressed against the bulb that really got his attention. Something in his chest loosened.
Within the next ten minutes, he had clumsily typed out a curt email to send to his chief of staff.
Personal day. Unavoidable. Reschedule as needed.
No explanation. He didn't owe one. God knows that his fellow congress members had left for things he deemed far more trivial than this.
He was back at his apartment within the hour, changing into dark jeans, black boots and a soft gray Henley that clung to his skin in just the right way. Lastly, he slipped on his leather jacket. It still smelled faintly of motor oil and clean sweat. He plucked out his helmet from the top shelf of the closet in the hallway— it was the same one he’d worn in the ‘40s, scuffed around the edges with a few chips in the paint, but entirely functional. He had subtly removed it from a Captain America exhibit at the Smithsonian and walked out without a backward glance. Normally he would have worn gloves, but the long sleeves concealed most of his vibranium arm and he was getting used to the stares.
He pulled out his phone and texted you.
30 mins. Be ready. Bring headgear.
You were standing outside your apartment when he arrived, already smiling with your own helmet tucked under your arm. You also had jeans on, your own leather jacket and sneakers that looked like they were ready for any occasion. Bucky swung his leg over his motorcycle— a 1940s Indian Chief, black and chrome— that he had pulled out of storage when he moved to the state. It had been meticulously cleaned and restored back to a functional state by Sean Dugan, who owned a garage not too far from Capitol Hill. The man was the spitting image of his grandfather, Dum Dum Dugan of the Howling Commandos. This was the first time he was riding it since the war ended, but since his last motorcycle had met an unfortunate end, this springtime venture was the perfect opportunity to dust off a piece of his past. The engine turned over with a low, throaty rumble that vibrated through his bones, like an old friend saying hello.
You hopped on behind him without a moment’s hesitation, arms wrapped firmly around his waist like you’d done so many times before. He felt your chin rest on his shoulder for a second.
“Ready?” he asked, voice muffled through the helmet.
“Always.”
He twisted the throttle gently, revving the engine a couple of times. Then harder making the bike surge forward, tires crunching as they spun over asphalt as the two of you sped away, leaving the city behind. Wind whipped around you and with it came the scent of fresh grass and petrichor. You laughed into his back when he took a curve a little too fast. Bucky resisted the urge to turn his head to look at you. The sound felt pure and bright, it made something warm bloom in his chest.
The two of you rode for almost an hour, weaving down back roads and avoiding highways. It was a route Bucky had mapped out during a particularly dull legislative session. No traffic, no tolls, just quiet county lanes lined with budding trees and early blossoms. The temperature of the afternoon had already climbed into the low 70s and the sun was beaming from overhead, generous with its warmth. Without warning, daffodils started appearing in patches along fences, then in bigger drifts, until finally the road curved down and opened out into a shallow valley.
Bucky slowed down, turning off onto a slightly concealed dirt track that was just wide enough for a bike. It crawled through a few yards of foliage before the meadow opened up like a secret. Before you spread out acres of wild daffodils, thousands upon thousands, carpeting the ground in scattered bunches. The hardy flowers bobbed in the breeze like a marching band of golden trumpets catching the sunlight, laughing at winter’s inevitable defeat. There wasn’t another person in sight, just the earth, a clear sky and the sea of yellow.
Bucky killed the engine and silence rushed in around you, broken only by birds and the faint rustle of petals. You scrambled off the back of the bike, pulling your helmet off to stare at the view, mouth open. He left you to gawp while he wheeled his bike a few feet into the field, being careful not to crush too many and parked it in a flower-free patch. The chrome body glinted against the floral surroundings, looking like an emperor amongst its subjects.
“Bucky... this is… insane! It's like someone spilled sunshine.”
You scrambled after him, still clutching your helmet while your sneakers sank into the cool grass between the blooms.
“Found this place last fall,” he said, almost shy. “Thought it might look good in spring.”
“It doesn’t just look good, Bucky. It looks like a painting somebody left behind.” You turned in a slow circle, arms out and eyes wide. Thousands of daffodils bobbed their golden heads in unison, as if applauding your arrival. “How did you even know this was here?” you asked, stopping to look at him when the spinning made you dizzy.
He shrugged one shoulder, the leather of his jacket creaking. “Took a ride last November, couldn't sit through another budget meeting without losing my mind. Pulled over to stretch my legs and saw a few stragglers poking through the dead leaves. Figured if they could survive all winter…” He trailed off, metal fingers brushing the edge of one trumpet-shaped bud without picking it. “Well, seemed worth checking in on them.”
You watched him, eyes roaming over his face. The sun caught on a stray silver strand that threaded through the dark hair at his temples. Tension lived there permanently, but today the furrow in his brow had flattened. He looked younger out here. Not a Congressman. Not a Soldier. Just Bucky.
You set your helmet down on the back of bike seat and pulled out a small canvas bag from the saddlebag you'd packed before he came to pick you up: two wrapped sandwiches, two thermoses, a couple of slightly bruised plums, and— because you couldn’t help yourself— the single daffodil you’d bought from a street cart, the same one you had lured him out of work with. You’d tucked it inside your jacket so it wouldn’t get crushed on the ride.
You laid down your navy wool picnic blanket, smoothing it over a flat patch of grass. He immediately dropped down beside you with a sigh that, honestly, sounded like it had waited months to escape. His long legs stretched out lazily, boots crossed at the ankles as they spilled off the edge while one arm was propped behind his head. The other— the vibranium one— rested across his stomach, fingers tapping a slow, idle rhythm against the henley like he was still hearing the roar of the engine in his ears.
For a long stretch neither of you spoke, lying together in sweet silence. Just the feel of the breeze, the buzz of the bees, and the occasional soft clink of his dog tags when he shifted on the hard ground. Eventually you sat up, unpacking the sandwiches— you handed him the roast beef, and kept the turkey for yourself. He accepted it with a small grateful nod.
You took a bite, chewed, swallowed, then let the words slip out before you could second-guess them.
“I saw your bio at the Smithsonian last month.”
He went very still. You weren’t looking at him, but you could feel it. He wasn’t tense, exactly— just… listening.
“They changed the big exhibit on the Howling Commandos. They’ve got this wall with all the personnel records blown up. Birth dates, hometowns, next of kin.” You kept your voice light, as though this was just something you did casually, for fun. “March 10th, 1917. James Buchanan Barnes. Eldest of four,” you quoted gently.
He didn’t look at you. His gaze stayed on the azure sky. “You weren’t supposed to notice that.”
Now you turned to him. “I notice everything about you, Bucky. You know that.”
He let out a long exhale before his eyes flicked to yours. “Didn’t tell you on purpose.”
“I figured.” You plucked a blade of grass, twirled it between your fingers. “You hate when people make a fuss. Especially now. With the cameras and your staff. Can you imagine the whole ‘Congressman Barnes turns 109 today’ circus that would happen if anyone found out?”
He huffed a quiet laugh, but there was no humor in it. “One oh nine. Jesus. Sounds like a headline waiting to happen. ‘Winter Soldier Celebrates Birthday with Tax Reform.’” He rolled his eyes and sat up to unwrap his sandwich.
You inched towards him, closer and closer, until your knee brushed his thigh. “I’m not making a fuss,” you said quietly. “Promise. No singing, no cake, no balloons. I just… I didn’t want today to go by without saying something. Even if it’s only me who knows.”
He finally turned his head and looked at you with those blue eyes— even after all this time, they still stole your breath away. They searched your face like he was looking for hidden judgment, but finding only your steady warmth.
“Don’t need anything,” he answered. His voice sounded out in a low grumble but you knew better than to take that personally. “This—” he continued, gesturing vaguely at the meadow, the bike, the blanket and you “— this is already more than I could ever let myself want on a birthday.” He paused, staring out into the distance, lost in the past for a brief moment. “Back in the day it was just Steve dragging me to Coney Island… and that was only if we could scrape two nickels together. After the war… after… everything, I stopped keeping track. Easier that way.”
You pressed your hand against your jacket, the single stem was still sitting snugly beside your sternum. It felt almost inadequate now, seeing the sea of sunlight he had brought you to. But you took it out all the same. The stem was a little bent from the ride, but the yellow trumpet was still bright and defiant. You held it out to him with a soft smile.
“Maybe today could be the first one you keep track of again? No fuss. Just… this. You, me, a ridiculous amount of daffodils, and the fact that I’m really glad March 10th in 1917 happened… ‘cause it gave me you,” you finished shyly.
He stared at the flower for a long moment, his vibranium fingers closing around the stem with a gentleness that would surprise anyone. He brought it up to his nose and closed his eyes, breathing in. When he looked back at you, his expression held a vulnerability that he rarely showed.
“You snuck that in my bag?”
“Maybe.”
A real smile this time— the small, crooked one that made the corners of his eyes crinkle. The one he usually saved for you. “Sneaky.”
“Only on special occasions.”
He tucked the daffodil behind his own ear, the bright yellow a stark contrast against his dark hair and the faint shadow of stubble on his stupidly handsome jaw. It looked ridiculous and perfect at the same time.
“Happy birthday, Buck,” you whispered, breath warm against his ear.
He didn’t answer with words. Bucky didn’t usually communicate meaningful things with words. Instead he turned towards you, sliding his left arm behind your shoulder blades, the right one cupping the back of your neck. He leaned in, pressing a kiss on your lips— slow and deep and intensely grateful. The kind of kiss that tasted like sunlight, old leather and second chances. When he pulled back, his forehead and nose rested against yours.
“No fuss?” he murmured.
“No fuss,” you agreed.
But you both knew the daffodil in his hair was already a little fuss. But he didn’t seem to mind.
He lay down again, pulling you with him so your head rested on his chest. The steady thump of his heart mixed with the tiny clicking of the bike’s engine as it cooled. You traced idle circles over the henley, right above the spot where the metal met skin.
“Tell me something from before,” you said after a while. “From a March 10th that wasn’t… this.” You waved your hand around, indicating life in general rather than specifically the daffodils.
Bucky stared up at the sky for a while, contemplating his answer. His hand stayed snugly around your waist. He hummed softly before sitting up. You scrambled up after him, following the direction in which he was gesturing with the tilt of his head.
“Over here.” He shuffled over to his bike. You followed. He knelt beside the engine, pointing to the old carburetor, the chrome exhaust pipes still gleamed, even after all these years. “So back in the war, we had to improvise. Radios went down all the time, comms failed. But engines... engines talk if you know how to listen.”
He rose up onto his knees and turned the key and then gave the kickstart a gentle nudge. The engine coughed once, then spluttered into life.
“Listen,” he said, closing his eyes to take in the fluctuating murmur coming from the motorcycle. “Hear that?”
You listened. You truly did. “Umm, am I supposed to hear something other than the engine?” you asked cautiously.
“You’ve got short bursts, long ones. Like Morse code?” he tilted his head as he spoke, trying to see if you understood.
You closed your eyes again, concentrating on the way the engine popped and purred in irregular patterns: short-short-long, then a slight pause before it came again, long-short-short. When you opened your eyes again, Bucky was grinning at you, boyish, rare.
“It’s a thing we used to do… as a signal in the Howling Commandos. Like when we were pinned down. Messages like ‘all clear’ or ‘move now’ or ‘Steve's being an idiot again.’”
You burst out laughing. Then you tilted your head and listened carefully to the way the engine continued to rattle, another uneven sequence of pops and low rumbles.
“What’s that one?” you asked.
Bucky listened for a second, brows pulling together in mock concentration. “Rough translation?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t forget this.”
You examined Bucky’s face. He returned your gaze with a serious one of his own, blue eyes shining. You let the words sit between you, the moment softer than the idling engine. Your face relaxed into a smile and you cast your eyes out over the meadow once more, watching the daffodils sway in the breeze like a thousand small suns nodding in agreement with Bucky’s words.
“I won’t,” you said quietly.
Bucky gave the throttle a small twist, letting the engine answer with a low, steady growl before settling once more.
“Good,” he murmured, unable to hold back the smile twitching at his lips.
You nudged his shoulder with yours. “How about you? Do you want to remember?”
He didn’t answer right away. He wasn’t looking at you anymore. You weren’t even sure he was looking out at the meadow anymore. Slowly he reached up and adjusted the daffodil tucked behind his ear, almost like he had almost forgotten it was there. He secured it before looking back at you with dazzling intensity.
“Hard to forget a day like this,” he said quietly.
The way he was looking at you now was breath-taking, you couldn’t move, mesmerized by the depth of emotion behind those beautiful blues. But the moment was interrupted by a cough from the engine, as if it also needed to voice an opinion. You chuckled and Bucky’s eyes flicked back to the bike. He cocked his head again, like he was listening to something only he could hear. The engine rattled on in its lazy idle, the occasional pop echoing around the meadow.
“Hang on,” he said suddenly.
You leaned closer, squinting at the exhaust pipe like that might help you to understand the sounds it was emitting.
“It’s saying something else,” Bucky whispered against the shell of your ear.
“Oh?” you said, a little more skeptical now.
He listened with exaggerated seriousness, his brows knitted together and lips pursed like he was decoding a particularly complicated transmission.
“Yeah,” he murmured with a nod towards the bike. “Okay… got it.”
“Well?” you prompted, a hint of impatience in your tone.
Bucky glanced at you sideways, that crooked half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“It says…” he paused dramatically, giving the throttle the tiniest twist so the engine rattled out another uneven burst of noises, “you packed the good sandwiches.”
You stared at him, eyes narrowing with growing suspicion.
“James Bucky Barnes!” you cried, watching him blink innocently. “You’re making this up!”
His face split into a huge grin, confirming your hunch.
“Oh my god,” you said, shoving his chest with the heel of your hand. “You really had me going there!”
He rocked back slightly from the momentum of your push but caught your wrist before you could pull it away, metal fingers surprisingly warm and steady around your hand as he stopped you moving away.
“Hey!” he laughed softly.
“You are unbelievable,” you continued, your sense of indignation bubbling up, fighting back a smile that threatened regardless. “I was sitting here actually trying to hear Morse code on your… stupid motorcycle.”
“Worked, didn’t it?” he smirked.
“For like thirty seconds!”
“That’s a personal best,” he said proudly.
You let out an exasperated huff and tried to shove him again, but he only tugged you forward instead, pulling you right into him until your chest was flush against his. Your laughter made you bump awkwardly against him, his arms slid around you anyway, keeping you close.
“They’re turning you into a proper politician. You’re a con artist now,” you muttered.
“I prefer professionally trained improvisation,” he corrected.
You tried to smother your smile as you tilted your head back to look at him.
“You’re ridiculous,” you huffed, shaking your head.
“And you believed me.”
“For like… a second.”
“Still counts.”
He squeezed you once again, a little more briefly, before letting you go. The engine spluttered one final half-hearted clack, before Bucky reached up and flipped the key. The bike settled into silence again. The quiet of the meadow rushed back in around you, filling the space.
You both drifted back to the blanket without further thought, collapsing onto it in the soft (and slightly damp) grass. The daffodils continued to sway around you, their bright happy yellow faces nodding in the breeze as if they’d been listening to your entire exchange. Bucky lay back, leaning on his elbows, stretched out fully, his long legs crossed at the ankles again. You flopped down beside him, your shoulder brushing his.
“So,” you pouted, nudging him teasingly with your knee. “You promised me a story.”
“March tenth, huh?” he hummed thoughtfully, lying back completely and staring up at the wide stretch of blue sky overhead.
“Mmm hmm.”
Bucky was quiet for a moment, digging through memories that were older than most buildings in the city you’d left behind that morning. You knew he wasn’t withdrawing because his hand was still wrapped firmly around yours.
“Well,” he finally said, “there was one year when Steve and I borrowed a bike.”
“Borrowed?” you echoed, picking up on some hesitation in the way he used the word.
“Stole,” he clarified with a mumble.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
He smirked faintly. “It had this huge cart on the front, belonged to a delivery guy on Atlantic Avenue. He was there, same time every day when we got out of school. We figured we’d ride the thing around the block and bring it back before he noticed.”
“And…?”
“Well then Steve decided we should see how fast it could go.”
You snorted. “Are you sure it wasn’t you?”
Bucky smiled again, squeezing your hand. “Kid had legs like matchsticks and somehow he still thought he was invincible.” Bucky shook his head, fond exasperation threaded his voice. “We got halfway down Atlantic Avenue before realizing neither of us actually knew how to steer the damn thing.”
“Please tell me you didn’t crash it.”
“Oh, we absolutely crashed it.”
You burst out laughing.
“Right into a fruit cart,” he added.
“Stop,” you laughed, holding your sides.
“Oranges everywhere.”
“Bucky!” You rolled around on the blanket, trying to suppress your giggles.
“Guy chased us three blocks.”
You were laughing hard enough now that you had to roll onto your side, clutching your stomach. Bucky watched you with quiet amusement, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
“Worth it though,” he said after a moment.
“For the oranges?”
“For the ride.”
Your laughter faded into something softer. Quieter. The breeze shifted through the meadow one more time, but this time it carried something more than just the warm scent of sunlit grass and petals. Bucky’s voice dropped a little when he spoke again.
“Spring back then…” he said slowly. “It smelled like possibility. Like everything was about to start and anything could happen.”
Your fingers idly traced the edge of the blanket.
“And what does possibility smell like?”
“Fresh bread from the bakery down the block,” he reminisced. “Motor oil. Rain on the pavement. Coney Island when the boardwalk opened back up.”
You smiled faintly, snuggling into his side. “Sounds nice.”
“It was,” he admitted. “Before everything got… bigger.”
You wrapped yourself around his arm, your head resting against his shoulder while you stared up at the wafer thing drifting clouds.
“My mom used to let me plant daffodil bulbs every fall,” you said. “Before the frost set in.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you nodded. “She’d say if you buried them deep enough and wished hard enough, they’d come back every year… like magic.”
Bucky turned his head toward you. “And did they?”
“Every single time.” You shrugged lightly, tears glazing your eyes. “I wish she would come back,” you whispered.
Bucky pulled you closer, his arm snaked around your shoulders supportively and you wiped away the tears on his Henley before they could fall. For a while you both just lay there in the golden quiet, watching the sun slowly move westward across the sky.
Eventually the light softened, turning the sea of daffodils from bright gold to something warmer and deeper. Shadows stretched longer through the meadow and the breeze picked up slightly, fluttering at the edges of the blanket and whispering through the flowers.
Bucky sat up first.
“Wind’s changing,” he said, glancing toward the horizon at the dropping sun.
You pushed yourself up onto your elbows.
“Time to go?”
“Probably.”
Together you started packing the small picnic without any ceremony. Sandwich wrappers stuffed into the bottom of the canvas bag, thermoses placed more carefully, the uneaten and slightly bruised plums rolled gently together before disappearing into the saddlebag again. When everything was stowed, Bucky paused beside the bike.
The daffodil was still tucked behind his ear. He plucked it out carefully, straightening the bent stem between his fingers before sliding it into the inside pocket of his leather jacket. You watched him do it.
“Souvenir?” you asked.
He shrugged one shoulder.
“Something like that.”
Then he looked at you, blue eyes were quieter now, reflective in the fading light.
“Hey,” he said.
“Yeah?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, a little sheepish.
“Thanks for this.”
“For the sandwiches?” you asked innocently.
“For… this.” He gestured loosely around the meadow. “For making this the first birthday in a long time I actually want to remember.”
Your chest tightened.
“Well,” you said softly, stepping closer, “you better remember it. The engine said so.”
His crooked smile returned. “Guess I’d better listen to it then.”
He handed you your helmet and climbed on. A moment later the motorcycle roared back to life, its deep rumble resonated through the valley of daffodils as you climbed on behind him. The sun was now dipping low as Bucky eased the bike back onto the narrow dirt path, golden flowers waving enthusiastically in the wake of its passing as you rode toward the road.
You wrapped your arms tighter around his waist, resting your helmeted head between his shoulder blades while the engine thrummed beneath you. Before setting off, he lifted one hand from the handlebar just long enough to squeeze yours where it rested against his stomach. A silent thank you. The road stretched ahead of you, quiet and empty, the horizon turning soft shades of gold and rose. Spring had finally arrived and Bucky Barnes was already looking forward to the next March tenth.