Chapter Text
Nothing can shatter
The promise I made to you
That our love will make you whole
And I will be faithful
Dying to be with you
I will not let you go
But I will give my life to win your heart
And I will tear apart my soul
I'll give away all I know to bring you home
For all that is true
For all of the way
With all of my life
- “Desert Lands” by Trading Yesterday
~*~*~*~*~*~
Steve carried the dream of Bucky with him like an invisible talisman warding away his melancholy mood. Sam, at least, was trying to make the day special for him. He greeted Steve with a plate piled high with chocolate-chip pancakes fresh off the stove, and kept flipping more onto his plate until Steve couldn't eat another bite. Winter barely said a word through the meal, but at least he sat at the table the whole time.
The morning slipped lazily away. They sat around the table much longer than usual, just talking and enjoying each other's company. After they'd cleaned up the kitchen, Sam announced that he was going into town to get supplies for Steve's birthday cake and the picnic supper they were planning to have. Earlier in the week, Sam had located a park where they could watch fireworks that night, far enough away from the festivities so Winter's mask wouldn't draw too much attention. Sam waved away Steve's offer to go with him and help with the groceries, then drove off and left him alone with Winter.
There was an odd tension in the air when the house fell silent in Sam's wake, and for the first time in a very long while, Steve felt awkward around Winter. Something was different between them, but he couldn't figure out what had changed, so he didn't know how to fix it.
Winter stood in the closed-in porch at the back of the cabin, staring through the window with a vacant expression that said he wasn't taking any of it in. Steve walked up beside him as casually as he could and said, “Hey, want to go for a walk? It's pretty nice outside.”
Winter just shrugged, not looking up.
“Or we could take a spin on the motorcycle,” Steve suggested. “We haven't done that in a while.”
Another shrug.
“Want to...watch a movie?”
Shrug.
“Read a book?”
Shrug.
“Well, we ought to do something,” Steve said, a note of impatience entering his voice. He bit his tongue before he could petulantly add, It is my birthday, after all.
Winter said nothing, but as he waited for a response, Steve looked at him more closely. There were dark circles under his eyes, as if he'd been sleeping poorly. And he knew Winter well enough by now to look for the tension in his shoulders, the droop in his posture, the way his eyebrows pinched together. Something was weighing heavily on him. Steve suddenly remembered that Winter had started to tell him something over the phone, but then stopped himself. He wished Winter would just tell him what was bothering him and get it out in the open.
Better yet, he wished Winter could just enjoy a holiday for once. Steve didn't want his birthday to end up as lousy as Christmas had, nor to waste what little time they had together with this odd uneasiness. Why couldn't Winter just be happy for one measly day...?
That thought brought him up short, twinging with guilt. In the end, did it really matter why Winter was unhappy? Knowing the reason would make it easier for Steve to know how to help, but it didn't change that Winter wasn't happy right now. And Steve wasn't excused from trying to help just because it was his birthday.
Winter didn't even look up when Steve slipped away. He went to his room and picked up the sketchbook sitting on his bedside table, flipping through it until he found his most recent drawing. He carefully tore out the page and took it back to the porch, where Winter stood in the same position as before.
“Hey, Winter,” he said, “do you know when your birthday is?”
Winter hesitated, lifting his head slightly as if thinking his answer through, and Steve's hopes rose. Did he actually remember something? Maybe the date, or a birthday party from his childhood? But then Winter just shrugged again.
Undeterred, Steve went on. “That's fine. You can share mine.”
Finally, he managed to get a reaction. Winter turned his head just enough to peek at him from the corner of his eye. “What?”
Steve smiled and held the drawing out to him. “Happy Birthday, Winter.”
Slowly, Winter took the picture and examined it. It was a drawing of Winter standing in the rain with his head tipped back, eyes closed as the water rolled down his face and dripped from his outstretched arms. Steve had crumpled up three different attempts before he'd managed to capture the look of absolute tranquility he remembered seeing on Winter's face that day. It was tricky to get right, when the only expression he could draw was on the upper half of the face.
As he looked at the picture of himself, Winter grew completely still. His hair fell in front of his face, so Steve couldn't see anything of his expression. Just as he was beginning to worry about the silence, Winter murmured, “Is this...what I look like?”
“It's what I see.”
Winter placed the drawing carefully on the dining table, then slowly raised his eyes to Steve's face. He drew a long breath, and Steve waited for him to say something deep and meaningful. Instead, he said, “But...it's not my birthday. Probably. 364 to one.”
Steve smiled. “But you ought to have a birthday, and this way it'll be easy to remember when it is.”
Winter shot him a look of exasperated confusion. “Why is it so important for me to have a birthday?”
“Because a birthday is a day to celebrate your life.” He looked fondly at his friend, who had come so far and endured so much. “And I'm so glad your life overlapped with mine. I think that's worth celebrating.”
Winter's fingers brushed the penciled outline of his own face, then he looked up at Steve, facing him directly for the first time all day. “Really?”
The uncertainty quivering in his voice broke Steve's heart. He stepped forward, closing the already short distance between them, and pulled Winter into a tight hug. “I hope that doesn't come as a surprise. You're my best friend, Winter, and I love you. You know that, right?”
Winter stood in his embrace, not raising his arms to hug him back. He rested his forehead against Steve's shoulder and said, “Yeah. I....” His voice faded away, lost in the heave of a shuddering gasp. “I....”
Steve could actually feel his heart start hammering against him, but just as he realized Winter was having another panic attack, Winter placed his metal hand on Steve's chest and roughly shoved him back. Unprepared, Steve stumbled back a few steps and almost fell over a chair at the dining table. Winter muttered something that sounded like, “can't do this anymore.” He all but ran through the living room and disappeared down the hallway. A door slammed, making Steve flinch as though Winter had slapped him.
Slowly, Steve walked into the living room and looked down the hallway, toward the closed door of the bathroom. He knew that Winter was in there, trying to calm down and conquer his fear.
Fear that Steve had triggered somehow. He sank into one of the chairs in the lower area of the room, staring at his hands resting in his lap. What had gone wrong? It had been a long time since Winter had reacted to something so strongly. What had Steve done to set him off?
Was it the hug? But it had been months since physical touch had sent him over the edge like that. He knew now that they would never hurt him, so he had nothing to fear. Steve had thought—no, he was sure— that Winter liked being touched now. He sought it out. Why would it bother him so much now?
Steve propped his elbows on his knees and rested his chin on his clasped hands. Maybe it was something he'd said? He thought back over the exact words he'd used, trying to figure out what might have come out wrong.
When had Winter started to panic? Running through the conversation again, the first time he could remember noticing signs of distress was when he'd said, You're my best friend and I love you.
Why would he panic when Steve said he loved him? Was their relationship really so fragile that a declaration of love became a threat? But then Steve recalled what Winter had said before running off. I can't do this anymore.
Did Winter feel...stifled? Trapped? Like somehow, because Steve had helped him, he was obligated to love him back or play some role to pay off a debt? Maybe their time apart had proven to Winter that he didn't need them anymore. Maybe he'd discovered that he liked being away from them. Hydra was a sunken ship; there was no one left to hunt him down or force him to do anything. Maybe this taste of complete freedom these past few weeks was all he needed to realize that he was ready to move on. From everything.
If that was the case, was he afraid of how Steve would react when he said he wanted to leave? After all this time, could it be that he still thought Steve would be angry if Winter asked for what he needed? Steve rubbed his forehead with trembling fingers, then moved to massage his temples with his thumbs. Even now, the hard expectations Hydra had taught Winter about the way the world worked clung to him like a vicious leech, sucking his life away.
The air emptied from deep in his lungs. He wouldn't stop Winter, of course. He'd known all along that this day would come, the day that Winter was strong enough to venture into the world without him and not come back. That had always been the goal, right? Steve just hadn't expected that day to come so soon.
Soon. He choked back a mirthless laugh. It had been nearly ten months since that first unexpected meeting. Ten months.... So much had changed for both of them. There would be no going back. He would never be the same man he'd been before Winter had entered his life. And ten months was far too short a time to spend with such a good friend. A lifetime would be too short.
He just wished there was more he could do. He didn't want to part like this, awkward and bitter. If Winter were to strike out on his own, Steve wanted to give him a good send-off. He was just afraid that Winter wouldn't let him now. He probably wanted to get away as fast as possible.
Steve wasn't sure how long he sat there brooding, but eventually the door to the bathroom opened and Winter emerged. Steve slowly got to his feet. He expected Winter to hole himself up in his room, or skittishly avoid Steve's presence, after what had happened.
Instead, as soon as he stepped into the living room, Winter made a beeline for Steve. He stumbled down the steps to the lower part of the room, where Steve stood motionless, and didn't stop until they were face to face. Winter looked exhausted, with slumped shoulders and bags under his eyes, as though he'd been fighting for his life and barely won. Then he stepped right into Steve's personal space, touched his cheek with cold metal fingers, and rested their foreheads together.
Steve was afraid to move. He didn't know what he'd done wrong before, didn't know what might set Winter off now. But finally, he couldn't keep himself from whispering, “What can I do?”
Winter was so close that Steve couldn't see the expression on his face, but he did feel the bone-weary sigh escape through the small vents in the mask. “Hold me.”
So he did. He lifted one hand to brush the hair out of Winter's face, and for the first time he noticed a small scar on Winter's temple. It was a faint white mark, usually hidden under Winter's hair—a small burn the size of a nickel, as if hot metal had been pressed there repeatedly. Steve pressed his lips to the spot instead. He wrapped his arms around Winter, more gently than last time, and pulled him as close as he could.
He wanted to say something reassuring, but he didn't know what words to use when the most important ones he could say had backfired so horribly. So he used the language Winter seemed to respond to best, and let his hands do the talking instead. After almost a year together, he knew exactly what Winter liked best. He rubbed his hands up and down Winter's spine—sometimes with open palms, sometimes with knuckles, sometimes with fingertips. He kneaded the muscles around the metal shoulder, often tense and stiff as they moved the incongruous appendage. He trailed his fingers up Winter's neck, over the mask's binding, and into Winter's hair. He gently combed out the tangles, scratching nails against his scalp, drawing invisible circles into the space above his ears. At some points Steve was motionless, one hand on Winter's shoulder and one on the small of his back, breathing in tandem.
Steve's heart sank lower the longer he stood there, his gut slowly twisting into painful knots. He had a feeling this would be the last time he could hold Winter. When they did finally break apart, Winter would confess he wanted to leave, and by the end of the day he would be gone. And Steve knew better than to hope they would meet again. Winter would hide himself so thoroughly it would be like he'd never existed.
But Steve would never forget that he existed. Not a day would pass that he wouldn't wonder where Winter was, hope he was doing all right, wish he could see him again. He couldn't believe that it was possible to miss Winter so much while he was still in his arms.
His heart lurched painfully when he realized what this cold pit in his stomach reminded him of. Why did this keep happening? He'd felt the same when Bucky had been hurled out of his life. Now, just as with Bucky, he faced an interminable succession of days without a dear friend. Even though Winter was still alive, his departure would feel just as complete and final as Bucky's. And Steve wasn't ready to say goodbye. There was still so much to say to him, so much to learn about him. He wanted to keep laughing with him, enjoying the world together, helping each other face the joys and sorrows of this life.
What hurt more than anything was that Winter apparently didn't.
Winter was only doing what was best for his future, Steve knew. He had decided he needed to be alone, and he would follow through on that decision. He'd grown so much from the man who had been ordered what to do every moment of every day, and Steve was so proud of him. It had to be a terrifying prospect, to leave behind everything he knew in order to decide what he wanted his life to look like. But Winter had faced and conquered so many terrifying things over the past year. What was one more?
Minutes ticked by, but neither of them moved to break the embrace. Steve wished time could just stop and leave them there forever. This wasn't a conversation he wanted to have, or a choice he wanted to see Winter make. Memories of the days they'd spent together streamed through his mind. Reading to him in bed. Sitting at the table and looking across at a man wearing a blue bandanna. Tending to cuts on his arm. Running with him in the brisk morning air. Sitting up late at night, sipping hot chocolate in front of a crackling fire. Moments of silence, snatches of laughter. Somehow, it was the little things that felt the most precious.
He didn't want to banish any of them to mere memory. It was no comfort to know that in years to come, he could pull up a clear mental image of the way sunlight glistened on Winter's metal arm or the way his hair tickled Steve's neck as they stood there. He didn't want to simply remember Winter. He wanted to live with him right now.
They could have been standing there for hours, even days, but when Winter finally raised his arms from where he had looped them around Steve's waist, it felt far too soon. Steve's arms convulsively tightened around Winter for a moment, a silent scream for him to stay.
“Steve.”
He realized, as he reluctantly let Winter step back, that this was the first time Winter had ever called him by his given name. He was Cap or Captain America so often now, even with his friends, that hearing his own name sent a shiver down his spine. And it sounded so soft in Winter's quiet voice, like a comforting blanket of familiarity.
“There's something I...need to tell you.” Winter's eyes flicked up nervously to Steve's, then dropped to the floor again.
Here it comes, Steve thought, his stomach now an anxious, convoluted knot. He'll say that he's going to leave. That he wants this to end.
“I-I know I should have told you this a long time ago,” Winter stammered, “but...but I was...at first I didn't trust you, and then...then I was af...I was afraid of what your reaction would be.” He glanced up at Steve's face again and immediately took a step back, shaking his head furiously. “No, don't—don't feel bad, don't— Sorry, sorry....” He covered his face with both hands and let out a growl of frustration, shoving his fingers up into his hair. “This is all coming out wrong....”
“It's okay, don't worry about it,” Steve soothed, in a much calmer tone than he expected. Winter hadn't stumbled over his words this much in a long time, even when he was agitated. But he should know by now that he could say anything he needed to without fear. “Why don't you start over?”
Winter took a few deep breaths, visibly calming himself down though his hands trembled as they slid back down his face. When he spoke next, his voice was steady.
“Before I met you,” he murmured softly, keeping his head bowed, “I was so lost I didn't even know there was such a thing as hope. But even so, you found me. You saved me before I even thought I could ask for help. You've given me so much. You gave me a name...a home...safety, clothes, food...and yourself. Friendship...purpose...a life. A future.” He raised his head again, but now there was no sign of anxiety in his eyes, only an unbearable sorrow.
This is it.
“I'm sorry I can't give you anything better in return. All I have is me.”
Only when Winter turned his back and reached behind his head did understanding break and Steve realized what he meant. He stood stock still, hardly daring to breathe. This wasn't going in any direction he'd expected, and his heart pounded as he watched Winter slowly unfasten the mask.
“I'm sorry it's taken me so long,” Winter said, “but you...you, of all people, deserve to know the truth. And I trust you with every part of me.” The mask fell from his hand, bouncing harmlessly under the coffee table. And for the first time, Steve heard Winter's voice without anything to muffle or distort it—lighter, clearer, and stronger than ever. “I want you to know,” he said slowly, keeping his back to Steve, “that however you react...it's fine. And if you decide you can't accept me—the real me—for any reason at all, that's okay too. I know you always give me exactly what I deserve.”
Whatever he'd imagined Winter was hiding, whatever theories he had developed in the absence of knowing for sure, nothing—nothing—prepared him for the shock that seared him like a branding iron from head to toe when Winter turned around and faced him at last.
He knew that face.
“Bucky?”
The name was all he could say, the only word remaining in his vocabulary in that moment. He staggered to the side and dropped into a chair, not tearing his eyes away for a second from the face he had never fully seen...which had become a face he could never forget.
This was a dream. It had to be. There was no way...but what else could this be? His ears were ringing, his heart was galloping, little spots appeared in his vision. He couldn't remember how to breathe until he sucked in enough air to weakly ask, “How? You...fell. I watched you fall!”
Winter—Bucky—sank into the couch opposite him, self-consciously tugging at a lock of his hair. “Hydra. When they captured me...that time you rescued me from their base in Azzano. They...experimented on me. I...I think they must have started me on the serum then, and it helped me survive the fall...barely.”
He kept glancing at Steve in a low-grade panic as he babbled on. “I...I can prove it to you. Ask me anything—something only Bucky would know. Um...your mother's name is Sarah. You used to put newspapers...in your shoes. I-I can tell you—“
“Bucky,” Steve choked out, interrupting him. “All this time...it was you? How...How could I not know?”
Steve watched him hunch his shoulders and lock his gaze with the floor, struggling for words. With his cringing posture, metal arm, and the long hair falling around his face, it was too easy to think of him only as Winter. “You had no way of knowing,” he mumbled at last. “You thought I was dead. It would never have occurred to you.... And-And I'm so different....”
But Steve didn't need convincing. One look at his face, and there was no doubt this was the friend he'd grown up with. He could see all the details that had escaped him for the past ten months. Or maybe he had noticed them, on some subconscious level, and just hadn't acknowledged them until now. How many times had Winter done or said something that brought back memories and thoughts of Bucky, which Steve had simply written off as a symptom of his loneliness? Too often...and now he understood why.
“Bucky...” Steve whispered, his eyes filling with tears.
“Can I be Bucky again?” his friend whispered, his right hand shaking as he held it out to Steve. Their eyes met across the room. “Can I...stay with you...till the end of the line?”
And he knew the exact moment his heart shattered.
With a broken cry, Steve lunged across the distance between them and practically threw himself at Bucky, landing so hard on the couch that, if not for the wall behind it, he would have sent it and them careening backwards. The hug from just minutes ago had been a quiet, gentle embrace, comfortably positioned in each other's arms. Now he grabbed Bucky with a desperation he hadn't felt in decades, crushing him with all his strength into the couch cushions and not letting go, as if to rewrite the time he had reached for Bucky and missed.
A strangled wail met his ears, like some kind of animal being choked to death. It was a moment before he realized the sound was coming from him, ripping through his lungs and up his throat with a vengeance he was completely unprepared for . He had carried this painful loneliness with him for so long that relief from it was incomprehensible, possible only because Bucky clutched at him with a need that matched his own. He might die of the agony...but it was the agony of joy, a beauty as piercing and pure as the first snow of winter. His heart swelled with such emotion that he was sure it would burst...but he didn't mind dying if it was in Bucky's arms.
He didn't die, of course. His sobs stumbled over each other so he could barely breathe except to gasp out, over and over again, “Bucky...Bucky... Bucky.... ”
“It's okay,” Bucky murmured, his voice thick with tears as well. “I'm here.”
That only made Steve cry harder than ever, because Bucky was here. He was alive. It wasn't a dream. It wasn't a joke or a trick or a lie. Bucky was as real as the air he breathed, as real as any waking moment he had ever known, and the warm immediacy of his presence didn't fade away no matter how many times Steve expected to wake up.
Gradually, Steve became aware that one of his knees was up on the cushions, levering his whole weight up to crush Bucky against the back of the couch. Bucky would have fallen to the floor had he not already been sitting down, and as it was he could barely move. “Sorry,” Steve gasped, trying to master himself. Being pinned down like this would be terrifying for Winter...no, for Bucky. “Sorry, I'll...I'll g-get up in a minute....”
Bucky's lips pressed against his cheek in a clumsy kiss. “Don't worry, Stevie,” he whispered. “I could do this all day....”
There was a hole in his heart that he'd been trying to live with, an aching absence he often managed to ignore. But with every passing moment, Bucky's solidifying presence filled that hole more and more, till it overflowed with more peace and love than he could possibly contain. It was a part of himself he hadn't known since the day he watched Bucky fall into the abyss.
Steve didn't think he would ever be able to unlock his arms from their embrace, but eventually his sobs began to subside and he could draw deep, if shaky, breaths. “If this was your idea of a birthday present,” he mumbled into Bucky's shoulder, “then it's the best one you've ever given me, you jerk. ”
Bucky let out a breathy sound that could have been a laugh. “You could always return it,” he said shakily. “I kept the receipt.”
“No way,” Steve said. “I'm keeping this one.”
Bucky sniffled and squeezed Steve so tightly his ribs ached. “Such a greedy little punk.”
His heart skipped a beat. This very morning, he had imagined Bucky saying that to him, back when he'd still believed he was dead. Now he heard those same words in Bucky's voice—Bucky's real voice, speaking right into his ear. He didn't have to content himself with memories. He didn't have to imagine what Bucky would say, because he was here and he could say it himself.
A giddy giggle escaped him, and once he started laughing, he couldn't stop. Bucky soon joined in, and they both shook helplessly with laughter and tears in equal measure. It was so strange—that was Winter's happy little chuckle, not Bucky's hearty guffaw. Reconciling both memories with the man in front of him would take some time.
As if he had read Steve's mind, Bucky said softly, “Are you sure you're okay with this? With...me? I'm not...the way I used to be. And now...I can't just be Winter either....”
Steve pulled back for the first time, just enough to look Bucky in the eye and let him sit up straight. Bucky's face was red and tear-streaked, his eyes puffy and bloodshot, his nose running. Steve knew he probably didn't look much better. He ran a gentle thumb under Bucky's eyes, brushing the tears away, then caught his eyes and smiled. “Are you kidding me? My two best friends are the same person. This is the best day of my life.”
Bucky closed his eyes as Steve's fingers brushed against his cheeks. Steve kept his hand there, gently stroking yesterday's scratchy stubble. Bucky's lips quirked up in a blissful smile; if he could have, he probably would have been purring. It occurred to Steve that the last person to touch his face, other than Bucky himself, would have been someone from Hydra. So, to make up for a little of that time, Steve caressed Bucky's face with his thumbs. And when Steve pulled Bucky back into a hug, he pressed their cheeks together. It was scratchy and warm, so different from the smooth surface of the mask.
The clinging desperation was gone now, and they shifted into a more comfortable position in each other's arms before settling back into the cushions again. After several long minutes of contented silence, Steve voiced a question his overwrought mind had ignored until now. “When did you remember? How long have you known?”
Bucky almost seemed to shrink in his arms, as if hunkering down to make himself less noticeable. “Since...the beginning,” he mumbled. “That's...the main reason I agreed to go with you, back then. I remembered you calling my name, just pieces of you at the time...and I had to find out. I had to know more.”
Steve held him at arm's length. “If you knew all this time...why didn't you say something sooner?”
Bucky cringed away, voice filled with guilt. “I-I was afraid...that when you found out...you wouldn't want...wouldn't want me anymore....”
Steve stared at him in disbelief. “Not want you anymore? Even when I had nothing, I had you. When I was nothing, you looked at me and decided I was worth something. Buck...you might think I saved you, but you saved me first. So many times, and in so many ways.”
Tears spilled from Bucky's red-rimmed eyes, as if he'd never expected to hear anything of the sort, and cautiously met Steve's gaze again. “Then...you really aren't angry? Even though I've lied to you all this time?”
Steve had thought all his tears were spent, but more welled up in his eyes as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind Bucky's ear. “The only thing I'm angry about,” he said, his voice trembling so much he could barely get the words out, “is how you could ever think I wouldn't w-want you. You kn-know me better. Buck...after all this time...you know me better than that.”
Bucky clasped Steve's hands between his and pressed them to his lips. “I'm sorry,” he whispered, “I'm so sorry...I-I forgot....”
Steve rested his forehead against Bucky's so their tears dripped onto their clasped hands and mingled, washing away a little more of the pain. “You never will again.” He drew in a ragged breath, praying silently that the words in his heart would be better received this time. “You're my best friend, Buck,” he whispered, “and I love you.”
He didn't panic this time, didn't pull away, didn't reject what Steve offered him. He opened his mouth as if to say something in reply, but all that came out was a broken sob as he sank further into their embrace. And though he couldn't seem to find the words or the breath to respond, the strength of his grip told Steve all he needed to know.
The two of them were so focused on each other that they didn't really register the sounds of a car pulling up to the cabin and doors opening and closing. Steve had completely forgotten about Sam's shopping trip until the front door opened and Sam rustled noisily in, his arms laden with half a dozen heavy-looking shopping bags because only weaklings make two trips, Steve . “Hey, do either of the supersoldiers wanna...oh.”
Steve looked up, sniffling, and saw Sam standing in the open doorway, looking a little sheepish when he saw that he was interrupting something important. There hadn't been any space in Steve's mind to spare for deciding how they would break this wonderful news to Sam. Heart swelling with elation, Steve got to his feet, wiping more tears away on the collar of his shirt. He wanted to tell the whole world that Bucky was alive, laugh and shout to everyone he knew that he had his best friend back. But he wanted Sam to know more than anyone.
Bucky rose as well, drying his eyes on his sleeve. When he turned to face Sam, all the grocery bags fell to the floor with a clunk.
“Winter...?”
Bucky smiled shyly—a crooked little grin that sent sunbeams bouncing off the walls and made Steve feel like he could finally draw breath after nearly drowning. “My name is Bucky.”
~*~*~*~*~*~
Steve finished his third piece of apple cake as fireworks exploded in the night sky. The remains of his birthday meal spread before them on the tablecloth they'd laid on a grassy hillside overlooking the valley. The crowds were a fair distance away, but the breeze carried oohs and aahs as flowers of red, white, and blue burst over their heads.
Maybe Steve didn't have the best seat in the house for watching fireworks, but he wouldn't have traded his spot for the world. Sam was on his right, lazily waving flies away from his chicken bones. And on Steve's left, so close their arms brushed against each other with every movement, sat Bucky.
Bucky. Every time he looked over at his friend, Steve's heart jolted as he remembered this was real. He would get used to the idea for a few minutes, see Bucky out of the corner of his eye and automatically think of him as Winter, and then it would hit him all over again.
This would be his life now. Every day, he would wake up to a world where Bucky was alive. He still couldn't quite believe it. He kept pinching himself to make sure this wasn't a dream.
As the fireworks show reached its grand finale, Steve let out a surprised laugh. Red stars burst in the middle of sprays of white and red. Then a quick sequence of rockets exploded, forming glowing golden letters in the sky: H-A-P-P-Y B-I-R-T-H-D-A-Y C-A-P.
The audience cheered as a cloud of smoke wafted towards them from the fireworks. “Hmm,” Sam said, taking a swig of lemonade. “I told them to write Happy Birthday Steve, but I guess Cap was easier.”
“So that's why your shopping trip took so long,” Bucky said with a grin. “I thought maybe your poor arms got too tired carrying all those heavy bags.”
Sam flicked a watermelon seed at him.
“Okay, okay,” Steve laughed before they could start an all-out food fight. He wrapped his arms around their shoulders, pulling them in close on either side. Bucky squeezed his hand and Sam rested his head on Steve's shoulder.
They had all been broken by war and loss, left adrift and alone in a world that seldom felt like home. But somehow, in the midst of darkness and pain, they had all found each other. And together, they were whole.
~*~*~*~*~*~
It was fitting to celebrate and be glad, for this your brother was dead, and is alive; he was lost, and is found.
- Luke 15:32