Chapter Text
It’s early. A single ray of sunlight falls across the floorboards; it has yet to reach the foot of the bed. Steve blinks in the half-light and scrubs a hand over his face. He stretches to his full height, arms overhead, curling his toes. His left hamstring twinges. The sheets stick unpleasantly to his back—the heat of the day already promising to be overwhelming.
On the other side of the drawn curtains, a cyclist’s bell rings and a car horn honks lazily in response. The drawn-out screech of brakes and agitated voices blend into the background hum of the city as it shrugs itself awake, sluggish and restless in the prolonged heat wave.
Steve flips onto his side, kicking the sheet to the edge of the mattress. The spot next to him is empty; the dip in the pillow is the only sign that another body used to occupy the space.
This is unusual. Bucky rarely wakes first. On a normal day, he will stir when Steve gets up, grumbling and clinging to him as Steve gets ready for a morning run or an early volunteer shift. (The latter getting less frequent now that most of Brooklyn’s post-Snap reconstruction has moved onto stages that require more skill than grunt work). On those days, once Steve has reluctantly disentangled himself, Bucky will burrow down in their pillows to emerge sometime after breakfast has transitioned into early lunch.
Which is how it always was—before, a lifetime ago—Steve is remembering: Bucky, sullen and quiet, dragging himself out of bed in the early morning hours for a shift at the docks, or wherever he’d found work that month.
Steve hugs the abandoned pillow to his chest and breathes in the scent of cotton and soap and spicy orange shampoo. It smells like sanctuary; it has been, this space of theirs, four walls that hold the life they’ve made for themselves. He pushes down the ball of unease tightening in his chest—to be dealt with later—and closes his eyes for a few more minutes of peace.
Six months they’ve been living together in this apartment, six months spent learning each other again, and in completely new ways. Day by day Steve finds himself mapping out quirks and habits, old and new. For every stark or subtle difference, there are a hundred things he knows, a familiarity resonating in the marrow of his bones.
Like how even this stubborn heat doesn’t seem to bother Bucky as much as it does everyone else. It makes perfect sense—Bucky always hated the cold, not only because of the threat it posed to Steve’s health and ability to work and thus their tenuous finances. He just infinitely preferred to be warm. On the first sunny days of spring he would be like a house cat, trailing around the apartment with a paperback in his back pocket until he found a sun spot to settle down in, shifting position as the sun moved.
Steve sighs into the pillow and steels himself for what’s to be found outside the bedroom door. He knows the patterns, and Bucky getting up before him is almost always a sign of a Bad Night.
Not today is a selfish thought, but Steve thinks it anyway.
He heaves himself up from the bed. Joints and muscles voice their protest, a subtle reminder of certain vigorous activities that took place last night. He would savor it, if his mind wasn’t elsewhere occupied—in a couple of hours the aches will be gone. He pulls on the pair of cut-off sweatpants he finds on the floor and stumbles out into the living room to look for Bucky.
He doesn’t have to look for long—the smell of coffee and things frying, guiding him to the kitchen where Bucky is standing by the stove, humming under his breath and poking gingerly at something with a spatula.
Steve stops in the doorway, releasing a soundless breath; the weight on his ribs eases. He crosses his arms over his chest and leans his hip to the wall, drinking in the sight. Bucky’s wearing running shorts and a vintage Dodgers t-shirt that’s loose around the collar and worn enough to be nearly see-through, hinting at the muscles in his shoulder and back shifting underneath the fabric. He’s let his hair grow longer again, long enough to be pulled into a knot at the nape of his neck. Steve’s fingers itch to tug at the elastic and run his fingers through the soft strands.
(He might be disgustingly predictable—but he can’t help that some of the most significant days in his life have started with a picture exactly like this one: Bucky, just about awake, in a kitchen, attempting to cook them breakfast.)
“I can hear you, you know,” Bucky says, his back still turned.
Steve walks over to him and snakes a hand around his waist, turning him around and pulling their bodies flush together.
“Mornin’,” he says and leans in to capture Bucky’s mouth in a kiss.
Bucky lets out a muffled half-protest against his lips but it’s contradicted by the way he opens up to the kiss and lets himself meld into Steve’s chest. He tastes like coffee and blueberries. Steve kisses him until they’re both thoroughly distracted and keeps kissing him until the smell of blackening pancakes interrupts them.
“Hey, quit it, punk.” Bucky pulls away and stabs at his chest with the handle of the spatula. “You’re gonna make me burn your birthday breakfast.”
“Oh, is that what this is?” Steve bites back a smile and surveys the spread on the counter—plates of eggs and bacon, fresh berries and the bowl of pancake batter with a stack of finished pancakes by its side. He lets his eyes stray back to Bucky’s figure, moving down to those obnoxiously small running shorts that reveal miles of muscular thighs—and other things. “What if I had something else to eat in mind?”
“Did you now?” Bucky’s voice drops and his eyes flash a warning. He moves the frying pan from the heat and turns off the burner.
“Uhu,” is the most intelligent response Steve can manage when that steel-gray gaze is fixed on him.
Bucky steps forward, crowding him into the corner between the counter and the wall, and licks his lips. “What a coincidence.” He takes one more step and his breath brushes over the shell of Steve’s ear. “So did I.”
Steve has to grip the sink not to buckle when Bucky drops to his knees and tugs down the loose waistband of his sweatpants in one seamless movement. He closes his eyes and lets his head drop back, hitting the wall with a thunk. Bucky’s hands roam over his legs and his hips, his fingers finding places where Steve is still pliant and open to their touch.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Buck,” he groans—and then doesn’t speak anything resembling words for a while.
Bucky stands and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Such a mouth on you, Rogers. Now sit down and let me finish breakfast.”
Warm and loose-limbed, Steve goes to comply. But first he grabs Bucky’s chin and kisses him once more for good measure, a salty-sweet appetizer.
+
Bucky sets down a towering stack of pancakes in front of him with a cheerful happy birthday, and a laugh at Steve’s expression when he spots the top pancake—painstakingly decorated with cream, strawberries and blueberries in a very familiar pattern. Steve picks up a strawberry and aims it at his nose because he’s ridiculous and he loves him a ridiculous amount.
Bucky catches the fruit before it can fall to the floor and plops it in his mouth with a smug grin.
They eat in comfortable silence. Steve goes back to leafing through the morning paper and Bucky pokes at things on his phone, occasionally smiling at something on the screen.
After they’ve put away a considerable amount of breakfast food and are on their third and fourth cup of coffee, respectively, Bucky starts tapping his fingers on the side of his mug, opening his mouth as if he’s about to say something.
Steve looks up from the op-ed he’s reading and waits for him to speak.
“So … um, I’ve got something planned for us today.” Bucky swipes a stray piece of hair behind his ear.
“Is that so?” Steve puts down his own mug and waggles his eyebrows.
“Pal, could you get your mind out of the gutter for one minute?” Bucky sighs in faux annoyance, but he clearly has to bite his tongue not to smile. “Nah, we’re getting out of the city, I thought. I know this heat is just about driving you up the wall.”
As he says it, Steve becomes conscious of the drop of sweat running down the side of his neck. And another down his back. And it’s barely eight in the morning. The idea is a very thoughtful but—
“What about the fireworks?”
It’s a stupid thing, but he’d been looking forward to it as another little milestone of firsts: kissing Bucky with the backdrop of his fireworks show. (The fireworks aren’t actually for Steve’s birthday, of course, but his ma and Bucky had always kept up the childhood tradition of acting like they were.)
“Don’t worry, there will be fireworks.” Bucky smiles at him and nudges his knee with bare toes.
“All right.” Steve traps his foot between his calves. “Where are we going?”
“Nope, not telling you. It’s a surprise.” Bucky inches the sole of his other foot up the inside of Steve’s thigh, under his shorts—causing a momentary distraction that allows him to wriggle free. He huffs triumphantly and snatches the last strawberry from Steve’s plate.
Steve tries to employ what Nat calls his ‘sad Golden retriever face’.
Bucky just keeps smiling like sugar wouldn’t melt. “We’ve got a couple hours before we need to leave, though …”
+
The dishes get a perfunctory rinse, on Bucky’s insistence. Bucky’s t-shirt gets thoroughly soaked, on Steve’s initiative.
“Oh, you are a punk,” Bucky laughs, bright and glorious and heart-stopping.
Soggy fabric lands in a heap on the kitchen floor; eager hands find naked skin. Rumpled sheets get drenched in sweat, bodies moving slick and breathless.
In the shower, under a light spray of blessedly cool water, Steve gets on his knees while Bucky washes his hair and rubs his scalp until he’s boneless and lost in complete bliss.
+
When they’ve gotten dressed and Steve’s legs are steady enough to stand on again, Bucky slides a baseball cap over his still-damp hair and dons a pair of sunglasses. He hands Steve a cooler bag, and tells him to get moving.
Outside the sun is scorching the pavement. The New York summer-smell of cooking garbage, exhaust fumes and someone getting a head start on their barbecue is faint but ever-present. For now the neighborhood is quiet, people either enjoying a slow holiday morning or already headed out to wherever they’re having their celebrations later.
Steve assumes they’re taking the train somewhere, but they’ve only reached the end of the block when Bucky fishes a set of keys from his pocket and walks up to where a cherry red, mid-sized pickup truck is parked on the street.
“Neat, isn’t she?” Bucky grins as he unlocks the doors and tosses his backpack in the backseat.
Steve eyes the shiny, spotless exterior. “Where did you get this?”
“It’s called a car rental service, Rogers.”
Bucky gets in behind the wheel, plugs his phone into the stereo, and turns up the volume while Steve climbs into the passenger seat. He maneuvers out from the tight spot, singing along to well, she was an American girl / raised on promises; he taps his fingers to the wheel at the intersection as Born in the U.S.A. reverberates through the speakers. (It takes Steve three and a half songs to clue in to the fact that every track has a reference to America in the title. Bucky’s poker face cracks just as he opens his mouth to comment on it. He doesn’t change the playlist.)
The pickup truck takes them out of Brooklyn and north along Manhattan without any complications, the holiday traffic having thankfully passed its peak. While they’re stalled at red lights, Bucky shows off things on the dashboard display, waving his hand as he explains the ins and outs of the electric hybrid engine. Steve listens and asks the occasional question and revels in the way his face lights up with excitement. (It’s another one of those moments to be carefully cataloged, when he can see a younger version come to life underneath familiar lines, a boy fascinated by the inner workings of everything around him, who loved to take what was broken and put it together with his own hands—maybe not just things, but people, too.)
After the first hour or so of driving, they’ve passed through Jersey and are coasting along I-87 going north. Steve is already pretty certain he knows where they are headed.
The air above the road is quivering in the heat. The air-conditioned interior is comfortable, despite smelling strongly of something citrusy and artificial. Beside him Bucky is holding the steering wheel with his left hand, his right resting casually on the gear stick. Steve reaches out and strokes the back of his knuckles.
“What?” Bucky glances over at him, tipping the brim of his cap back.
Steve shakes his head and weaves their fingers together. “Nothing.”
He leans back in his seat and lets his eyes rest on the bright-green foliage rushing past them as the wheels on the truck eat up mile after mile of asphalt.
+
The cabin is shaded by trees, the forest surrounding it hushed and drowsy in the summer heat. Bucky parks the truck at the end of the row of cars that line the driveway.
Steve has opened the door to the backseat to unload their bags—but he is waylaid. Wanda and Morgan Stark come running down the front steps hand-in-hand. Both have swirls of blue and red stars painted on their cheeks, matching the patriotic decor that decks out the wraparound porch.
Wanda throws both arms around his neck and kisses his cheeks. “Happy birthday, Mr America. Hi, Bucky.” She blows a kiss over Steve’s shoulder.
“Not you too,” Steve starts to complain as Bucky snickers behind him.
“How’s it goin’, Maximoff? You got everything set here?”
“I think so. Pepper’s inside, you should bring your things to the kitchen.”
“Gotcha.”
They’re interrupted as Morgan reminds them of her presence with a loud cough. She grabs Steve’s hand and starts pulling him toward the cabin. “Hurry up, uncle Steve! You gots to see this.”
“Hey, kiddo. What’s the hurry?”
“You will just have to come see, won’t you,” Wanda says and takes his other hand.
“All right, all right.” Steve has time to throw one glance over his shoulder, in a last-ditch hope for a rescue. Bucky, who is balancing the cooler on his left arm and slinging the backpack over his shoulder, just waves and mouths at him to go, have fun.
“Traitor,” Steve mouths back and lets himself be dragged away by the two giggling co-conspirators.
Sounds of music and voices mingling fade in as they approach the cabin. Morgan is still tugging on his arm to urge him to go faster, but Wanda has slowed to a more sedate walking pace.
“You all planned this, I gather.”
“Obviously,” she agrees and grins at him.
“Come on,” Morgan whines.
The three of them round the corner of the house.
A large figure jumps out at them. Morgan screams.
Steve moves on instinct, arms up, throwing his body between her and Wanda and the giant red-white-and-blue something.
It’s not a person. Or a robot. Or any kind of alien.
Morgan’s scream dissolves into breathless giggles.
Upon closer inspection it is a balloon. A Captain America balloon, though the resemblance is questionable. It’s clearly meant to be modeled after his old uniform but is almost two times life-sized; the shield it’s holding is the size of a truck tire. The balloon is floating two feet above the ground where it’s tethered to the porch.
Behind it, wearing a face-splitting grin, stands Sam Wilson.
“What the—” Steve catches himself before finishing the sentence. “Sam, what are …”
“Uncle Steve! Look, it’s you.” Morgan is still giggling between words, pointing at the balloon. Beside her Wanda is fighting to keep her face straight. “Did he scare you?”
“Yeah, Steve, did Captain America scare you?” Sam asks.
Steve weighs his options between wiping the smirk off Sam’s face and going in for a hug. He decides for the latter, perhaps slamming into his chest with a bit more force than necessary. He missed him, that’s all.
“Oof,” Sam says.
Steve clutches his shoulder and steps back to look at him. “I thought you were in Europe.”
Sam shrugs. “We cleared it up earlier than expected, Torres did most of the grunt work for us. We got back on Monday.”
“But Nat said—”
“Morgan! Come help us!” a voice calls from down by the lake.
“Gotta go. Bye.” Morgan waves at them and turns on her heel, racing down the sloping lawn. She comes to a halt next to the dock, where the three Barton kids and—yes, that is Yelena—seem to be in the midst of building some kind of game course.
Wanda comes up behind him and Sam and slings her arms around both their shoulders. Shiny, auburn hair tickles the side of Steve’s neck. He gives her waist a squeeze.
“Now you can take care of the birthday boy,” she tells Sam, “I'm going to go help Pepper with the drinks.”
“Sure. I’m gotta go make sure Barton doesn’t blow up the barbecue,” Sam says.
“It's good to see you,” Steve tells them both, meaning it.
“I know.” Wanda winks and shoves them toward the far corner of the cabin. “Now go play with the other kids.”
Steve trails after Sam over to where a long table is set up on the lawn just below the porch. A white canopy strung from the cabin’s roof to a couple of nearby trees shades it from the sun glaring overhead.
The smell of savory smoke wafts over and makes his mouth water. A few paces from the table stands a large grill, manned by a shirtless, blond man wearing what is, upon closer inspection, a Falcon-themed apron.
Clint looks up from the piece of meat he’s poking at. “Cap—I mean Steve!” He salutes him with a pair of grill tongs. “Happy birthday!”
“Hey, Clint, how’s it going?”
Sam’s exasperated voice breaks in, “What are you doing with the chicken? Where’s the marinade?”
“Chill.” Clint waves the tongs at him. “I’ve got it under control.”
Sam puts his hands on his hips. “That steak is burning.”
“It’s … supposed to do that.”
“Give me that. I’m not letting you ruin my mama’s recipes.”
Steve backs away and leaves them to it.
Up on the porch he finds Natasha and Laura Barton, seated on the porch swing, drinks in hand—clearly content with supervising both sets of children from a distance. He bends down to hug both of them.
“You lied to me,” he tells Nat.
She tilts her head and scrunches her nose. It’s sprinkled with tiny freckles. “I think of it more as a misdirection. Barnes wanted it to be a surprise. Here, have a beer.” She plucks a bottle from the ice-filled cooler at her feet.
Steve accepts it and takes a seat on one of the deck chairs. He kicks off his shoes, pops the cap on the edge of the seat and leans back, closing his eyes.
Shouts and laughter float up from the lake. The sun beats down, the water’s surface glittering like shards of crystal. The beer is cold in his hand. A light breeze flutters across the grass, bringing with it the delicious smell of food.
+
More guests arrive within the next half hour—Bruce and Rhodes, and Maria Hill driving a vintage Harley that Steve can’t help throwing a few longing glances after. He receives birthday greetings, hugs and handshakes and the obligatory jabs about the date he entered the world.
Pepper—tanned and smiling, barefoot in cut-off jeans and a white linen shirt—joins them all on the porch. She’s followed by Bucky and Wanda, balancing trays of various sides and two gallon-sized bowls of potato salad to the table.
Sam declares the meat ready and they’re called to eat, Steve directed to sit at the head of the table.
A hand brushes over the back of his neck; Bucky takes a seat next to him. His hair has been pulled back into a braided half-up style; his smile is wide and beautiful. He presses the sole of his own bare foot to the top of Steve’s.
Steve leans over and kisses him square on the mouth, unheeding of their audience. When he pulls away, Bucky rolls his eyes at him, but his cheeks are flushed from more than the sun.
Steve sits back and looks at the people seated around the table and the warmth of the summer day fills his chest from the inside. It took them a decade or so to get here, a road paved with too much grief and destruction by far, but here they are—his family.
+
Once the left-overs have been cleared from the table—and they’ve regained the ability to move after stuffing themselves way too full—Lila Barton stands up on a chair and announces the commencement of the ‘Official Avengers’ 4th of July Decathlon’. The only one excused from participating is Rhodey, who takes on the role of impartial and omnipotent judge.
After some debate and much accusation of bending the rules (Wanda earns herself a disqualification for using magic assistance) the games end in a tie: with Clint inching out Lila in the slingshot discipline, Morgan taking a well-deserved victory in the limbo—and Natasha and Yelena beating out everyone else on the slack-line, the blindfolded obstacle course, and in the giant Jenga game.
+
The afternoon saunters into evening, the party spreading over the grounds, equipped with cocktails and generous servings of birthday cake.
Steve dives into conversations and relaxed banter, enjoying the party in a way he never did going out to dance halls, or the fancy galas he was urged to attend as the face of the Avengers. He feels light and lighthearted, grateful for the day, for the company of friends. From moment to moment his eyes search out Bucky, finding him involved in an intense card game with Yelena and Clint, or deep in conversation with Morgan who’s showing him her toy lightsaber. Whenever they pass by each other, he lingers a moment, for the press of a hand to the small of Bucky’s back or a stolen kiss—little, wordless thank yous. Thank you for being here, thank you for doing this, thank you for knowing me.
The sunset paints a postcard scenery of the tree-framed lake.
Bruce digs around in the back of his van and produces several large cardboard boxes. Steve carries them down to the lake where the others have gathered. He sits down next to Natasha and leans back on his arms, the weathered wood planks of the dock soft under his hands.
“Are these legal?” Rhodes asks, opening one of the unlabeled boxes and examining the battery of fireworks pieces.
“Oh, um.” Bruce scratches the back of his neck. “I guess that would depend on what state you’re in.”
“Did you make your own fireworks?” Morgan asks. Her eyes are wide and shining.
“Um, I did, yes.” Bruce clears his throat. “You’ll make sure that everyone stays a safe distance away as I light them, won’t you.”
Morgan nods. She shuffles closer to Steve and leans her head on his shoulder. “My daddy used to make fireworks,” she whispers in his ear. “They were amazing.”
A sharp blade of regret pierces Steve’s lungs. He says, “Your dad made a lot of amazing things,” his voice catching on the last syllable.
Pepper comes up behind them and puts her hands on Morgan’s shoulders. “Come, baby. Let’s do as Uncle Bruce said and make sure everyone is safe as we watch the fireworks.”
Steve looks over his shoulder and meets her eyes. Pepper smiles at him and then down at Morgan, stroking a hand over her hair.
+
The fireworks shoot up and paint the sky in endlessly shifting patterns that are mirrored in the water; it’s bright and loud and colorful.
Loud enough that Steve feels Bucky’s hands on his waist before he hears him approaching. Bucky hooks his chin over his shoulder and speaks in his ear. “’s this like what you were lookin’ forward to?”
“Better,” Steve says, turning in his arms and slotting his body into Bucky’s until their noses are touching. So much better.
When the last glittering sparks fades away, the sun has dipped behind the tree tops and the only spots of light are two rows of candles lining the path up to the cabin. Dusk falls and so does the temperature. Steve follows Bucky back to their rental truck to pick up a long-sleeved sweater.
“Should we be heading home soon? I’ve got work at ten tomorrow.” He’s loath to leave now, but if they stay they’ll have to get up in the middle of the night to make it back on time.
Bucky shakes his head. “No you don’t, pal.” He grins, clearly pleased with himself. “Got the day off. Actually, got a couple weeks off. And we’ve got this baby for the time being.” He pats the hood of the truck lovingly.
Steve narrows his eyes at him. “What were you thinkin’, exactly?”
Bucky leans back with his hands on the hood. “Thought we’d go on a road trip. See some sights. More than you get to see from a quinjet. Not all of us got to tour with the USO, you know.”
“You’ve planned this.” Because of course he has, Steve should have known it.
“I have. Call it a birthday present.” There’s something almost bashful about the way Bucky ducks his head and kicks his heel against the tire. There he is again, another glimpse of that bright-eyed boy.
Bucky was always brilliant at presents, is the thing, and he didn’t reserve them just for birthdays or holidays either. It didn’t matter how little money they had, he always managed to scrounge up some extra cash or find things for cheap to give Steve and his mother and sisters. Bucky showed his love through tangible things: giving you a brand-new pencil just as the stump you were drawing with was getting impossible to hold, fixing up a piece of thrash into a working radio so you could listen to the Dodgers game from your bed, standing by your side in a fight.
Steve goes to stand beside him, close, jostling their elbows.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll find out in due time.” Bucky elbows him back. “For tonight Pepper is kindly letting us camp in her backyard.”
He steps to the side and pulls open the cover on the bed of the truck, revealing a mattress laid out on the bed, a bundle of blankets and pillows, a couple of packed duffel bags—and a folded-up something that turns out to be a tent-like contraption made to fit over the back of the truck.
+
Most of the other guests are staying in the cabin’s guest rooms, except for Bruce and Maria who have work to get to in the morning.
Inside the cabin, the younger party guests are getting ready to turn in for the night. Nat leaves Sam to deal with a fold-out couch and sidles up to Steve at the kitchen counter, where he’s spreading butter on toast for a nighttime snack.
“Have a good trip,” she says in the casual way of Natasha.
Steve offers her a slice of the good cheese. “Care to tell me where I’m going?”
“You’ll like it,” is the only answer he gets.
+
The tent’s roof is mostly see-through, allowing them to lie and watch the sky overhead and the stars coming out as the last of the lights die down. A soft fabric in black and indigo, dotted with pricks of light.
It’s not the largest bed they’ve slept in, but with the tailgate down they can at least both lie down with their legs straight. They lie on their backs, close but not pressed together, their hands resting on the mattress between them the only parts touching.
“We’ll have some more comfortable accommodations,” Bucky says, “The camping’s mostly ‘cause I’ve wanted to try it.” He turns his head to look at Steve in the gray not-quite-darkness.
Bucky shows his love through tangible things. In return Steve could shower him with his own every day, but he saves the words for moments like these when it lodges in his throat and it feels like he won't be able to breathe unless he lets it out. “I love you.”
“Me too, sweetheart.” Bucky smiles softly and rolls over to kiss him, softer still.