[ It's a modern thing, birthday wishes at midnight, but it's not so much a wish anymore as it is that constant need for him to remember. They will have to make newer memories to fill the spaces of those older ones. ]
Sometimes. [ Back then, it always rested on whether or not Steve had still been too sick to go out. He'd felt guilty every year Bucky had stayed in with him. ] We can do something later to celebrate - if you want.
[ Bucky's still thinking hard, trying to remember. Frustration is a near-constant companion paired with anger at himself -- it's moments like these when how much he had truly lost sinks in.
Birthdays, memories, little moments in time that define a life lived -- so much of it gone, replaced by nameless, fearful faces, so many of them begging to be spared. They say you are the sum of your memories and experiences, so what is he a sum of when he doesn't have that?
Steve tries hard, but Bucky can almost taste the sadness in those words. Even now, he's still hurting him.
It's on the tip of his tongue to refuse -- Steve doesn't need the reminder that the person he gives birthday wishes to isn't who he was anymore. Small mercies.
But he wants to remember more of it, not bits and pieces. He wants to take himself back; he owes that much to himself. Bucky tells him where he is, the invitation implicit in the text. ]
Steve doesn't know what that says about the slow way they're mending, how any of it fits, and he figures he's not a good friend now because of it. Should he have said anything? Important dates like these were hard to forget, even harder when Bucky's birthday had first rolled around after he'd woken from the ice. Culture shock and loneliness, mourning him since he'd never had the chance before the crash. He swallows the memory of that and the few years that had followed, the hours spent wishing he could have saved him and had never let him slip through his fingers. It's a crushing weight, but this is trying. This is their white flag, and he's waving it fiercely even as his hand slips over the keys of the MID to send a response. ]
Give me ten minutes.
[ Though he only needs half that, slipping out of his room quietly so his roommates don't hear. He's dressed down too, an undershirt and sweats, and the only gift he really has to give him are the worn dog tags hanging around his neck he hasn't removed since they'd shown up in his mail. Steve wonders if he'd want them, if he'd know Steve carried that old life in his hands and was willing to offer it to Bucky when he was ready.
The garden is quiet, mostly vacant, and when Steve finds him, he doesn't say anything. He just moves close and lingers, waiting to be acknowledged. ]
[ Celebrating his birthday for the first time, imagine that. The garden is serene this time of night, and he senses Steve coming before he even hears him. He's lingering by the candles, watching the flames dance on the occasion, quietly pensive.
Steve's company is welcome, all things considered. This date is important to Steve, and so it must be for the man that he was, too. He's still slowly regaining bits and pieces of memory, but he knows enough to understand that he can never return to who he was before.
No, that man is long gone, lost to snow and frost. He turns his head briefly, holding out an unlit candle to him. ]
We've done this before.
[ In a humble, run-down little church in Brooklyn, dressed in their Sunday best. ]
[ The words are soft, taking what Bucky offers and feeling their fingers brush just so—a momentary connection that fades when he pulls his hand away. The candles are probably there for different reasons, reasons that go beyond this garden and this ship, but Steve hasn't prayed in a long time, not like this. He crouches, staring at the flames of those already flickering with life. ] You never told me what you lit 'em for.
[ But they're personal, a silent wish for something good, though Steve could always guess. They knew each other inside and out, better than anyone. Now, there are too many secrets tied up in their names, tied up in themselves and this place to see it clearly. ]
Light, mostly. And there was nothing better to do.
[ Bucky refers to the few candles he'd just lit here; he doesn't remember what he wished for, back in that church. Wishes don't come true, and prayers go unheard. There's no one paying attention to the candles that he lights. But he did light one for Steve, anyway. When Steve's fingers brush against his own too fleetingly, he has an impression of it, the way he used to do it when he was much smaller. The wish is not articulated, and he points to the candle he'd just lit. Steve would probably know what Bucky would wish for -- even if Bucky doesn't know it himself. ]
That one's for you.
[ He's known this man a lifetime, loved him and followed him to hell without question -- inseparable best friends and brothers-in-arms. Maybe it can't hurt to pretend to believe in wishes for Steve's sake. ]
[ He ducks his head to hide the curl of his mouth, the silent huff of disbelief that comes from actually understanding and knowing that to be true. Through all the hardships and distance, there are pieces that have remained unchanged, and Steve sees those in a familiar face, in a voice that's become the light in this dark tunnel. Bucky might not say as much now, might not have the swagger or the charm of the Barnes name, but he still has Steve. That has to mean something.
It's slow, but he presses the wick of his candle into the one Bucky has lit, gentle as it catches and he places it down next to it. His prayer, that wish, is one he's had since the mask had fallen and the smoke had cleared. You know me, he wants to say, and I know you too. Simple hopes complicated reality, and Steve tilts his head to look at him, studying him in the soft light at the bottom of a tree. ]
They're for us. [ Their choices, their lives. Them. Steve pulls himself to his feet, something else on the tip of his tongue before he's talking again. ] We're gonna make it, you know. You and me. Just like we always did. [ What comes out on the other side is another matter entirely, but he believes it anyway, grasps at it with a bleeding heart. New and changed, old and forgotten—nothing could stop them if they stood together. ]
[ Bucky doesn't know who Steve is trying to convince, him or himself. Make it to what? He has a list of kills longer than his arm; he has the weight of the deaths of so many decent, good people on his shoulders -- how does someone make it out of that? How do they deserve to?
But Steve has always been aggressively, tenaciously optimistic -- he knows this truth to his bones; Steve with his bleeding heart, his determination and stubbornness. Bucky has a long way to go, but he stands up with him anyway, a knot in his throat keeping him from speaking for a few moments. What does he say in the face of this? What can he tell him? ]
I know, but I'm still your friend. [ I still love you.
They're both killers in their own right anyway, the twisted remains of men who had once called one another best friend. One carries it better than the other, though the weight of it is slowly destroying him, and the other— Steve looks at him for a rather long moment, taking in the gaunt lines of his face and the chaotic sweep of his hair, the shadows in eyes almost too gray to be blue. Here are the pieces of James Barnes, and he is going to hold them together whether he has the strength to do it or not, whether he wants him to or not. They were born for this, for each other, and Steve stands ready to fight for the most important person in his life.
He moves a step closer, cautious as he reaches out to touch him. It's light, the way his hand cups Bucky's shoulder, and he lets it rest there, his heart in his throat and his breath at a standstill. ]
[ Bucky lets Steve's touch linger. It's a simple thing, a normal thing, but it's never been more important to him. It's the first time someone's touched him without wanting to hurt him; it's the first time it's a person he doesn't want to hit -- or kill.
There is a thread of tension in his shoulders nonetheless, his body and mind long having associated touch with the inevitable pain. It's something else he struggles to fight down and swallow. He meets those blue, blue eyes after a few moments, the silence fraught with unspoken words.
Even after all that Bucky's done, he still wants to be here for him -- it makes him want to laugh; it makes him want to tell him everything terrible he's ever done (and oh, there's so many). But this man is the most important person in his world, and he doesn't need to recover his memory wholly to know it in his bones, and where his heart used to be.
He exhales, before he pulls away from him, his hand barely coming to brush over his before it's gone. The depth of Steve's dedication is almost overwhelming, the trust he has in Bucky's lost goodness almost makes him want to hope again. Fight harder, for reasons that have everything to do with Steve Rogers and the way he looks at him. Bucky loved him the way he did no one else, a long time ago; he knows this, too. ]
Because you never know when to quit. [ He remembers this clearly, too. ] It's a bad habit.
[ There's a hint of sadness to the way he smiles at him, to the way he lets his fingers curl and fall to his side once Bucky steps away. Steve doesn't dismiss the lingering heat of that touch, how it spreads and pulls hard at the depths of his heart and offers something he hasn't had in the longest time. He wonders if it has a name, if it will catch and hold and fill the unknown that has come between them. Later, maybe, but for now, Steve is complacent in their progress, and rather than pursue him, he's shaking his head, almost amused. ]
It's worked out for me so far. [ Even as careless as it's made him, it's brought them together. ] And you're the last thing I'd ever wanna give up on.
[ Because he had once. He'd let it consume him and then empty out into a hole too large to fill, and Steve looks at him because he's there, because he will never let him fade like a snapshot of nothing more than just a face. He is everything—his past, his future, the present with all its uncertainties. Yet, these conversations are exhausting, the hour already late, and Steve's own weariness has settled as bone-deep as a knife, pulling as he shifts and sways in a moment of indecisiveness. He hasn't mentioned the date again, and maybe he shouldn't, maybe the silence was better for that reason.
He struggles against his own stubbornness, lightly dragging his fingers through his hair. ] ... you thinking about staying here a while?
[ Or is he feeling spontaneous and wanting to spend a little more time with him? ]
[ He will blame the long, isolating hours when he looks back at this. He will blame all the time he'd shuttered away on his own even on this ship for what he says next. ]
You said it was my birthday.
[ It doesn't mean anything to him personally, he doesn't deserve something this mundane and pleasant -- but sometimes things like these aren't so much for yourself as it is for the ones you love, and Bucky wonders if he loves Steve more than he hates himself when he continues after a few more moments, tentative and awkward. Stay with me. ]
What is there to do?
[ Half of him is hoping that there no answer to that, and the other half grasps at Steve's presence like he's water to his parched throat.
He shouldn't, he knows this. He's still a threat to his best friend, but right now his presence isn't an unbearable reminder of what could have been and what they could be. Right now, the man standing before him is the one who reached out to him when he had been hopelessly lost.
Right now, Steve looks lost, tired and sad, and something in him twinges, aches to comfort even if he doesn't remotely know where to start. ]
[ Steve's partially turned as if he expects him to answer otherwise, ready to give him more time and all the space he needs even if it pains him in ways nothing else ever has. It's a cruel punishment, having spent so much of their lives together only to have it ripped away and offered in pieces each moment they saw one another. He doesn't know how much longer he can be so kind when all he wants to do is be selfish and keep him for himself. But the question surprises him enough to dislodge that thought, a brightness flickering across his face that settles into a softer curl of his mouth. ]
On this ship? I don't know. [ There are only so many things to do, and none of them are worthy of a birthday he hasn't celebrated in a long time, of a birthday that's ached each and every time the calendar turned its pages. ] What would you wanna do? It's supposed to be your choice.
[ There are a few public areas, the mess hall too. There's the obligatory cake or something sweet if they could find it in the kitchen, but that could always wait until more of the crew were awake to assist with it. Of course, it leaves them at an impasse, and Steve isn't sure it's one Bucky is willing to cross just yet. Or at all. Dates don't mean anything; people do. Bucky does, and that's why he's there, why he's lingering and looking a bit awkward and ready to take anything he says and run with it to have another few seconds, another shard of memory to hold close and cherish. ]
[ Another few seconds, another shard of memory to cherish and hold close when he's alone with his ghosts -- Steve Rogers is the sum of all the bright moments that he's had, the one thing that he holds on tightly to, fleeting memories and incomplete ones, the things that come back to him and stay as if they'd never left.
He wants to stretch this out for as long as his own nature allows him to, stealing every possible moment with him that could make his existence more memorable. Undeserved, of course, but needed like summer rain.
Steve is easy to read, and Bucky knows how his answer both surprises and delights him -- which is a touch bittersweet, considering the circumstances. He's ready to listen, to go with what he says, and when the choice is left up to him, Bucky frowns, lost. ]
I don't remember. [ Because it's not about him, not really. It's about Steve -- the human need to hold on to what's precious. To, for a few moments, pretend that everything will be well again, and to find it easier to believe in that. ]
[ But it's worse to settle for this imaginary truce of theirs than it is to sort through the real pieces and put them together, worse to feel the struggle when this would have been about Steve celebrating Bucky rather than taking it as day that holds a little something extra in comparison to the rest. He doesn't want it to be about him. It's about them or nothing at all, and Steve rubs at the back of his neck and lets his fingertips graze the chain of the tags he wears, expression a soft attempt at light. ]
Well - [ And the pause is only a glance over his shoulder, in the direction of the hallway. ] - you can't have a birthday without cake. Gifts, too, I guess, but having someone to share it with is usually better.
[ If he can't remember, Steve will be that lifeline he needs to reach it. He will be everything—a hope that never falters, a hand that never slips. Steve will drag him through and lift him up, and maybe, one day, they can be what they were always meant to be. ] We can start there - if you want.
[ Having someone to share it with is usually better. He can't fault that, and he can't deny it either. Tonight, he is not alone; Steve is a solid presence beside him, strong and seemingly immovable, the hope that never falters.
He wants to hold on to that, his sole lifeline when everything else seems hell-bent on pushing him under. He could keep his eyes on Steve, and everything that he hopes, this beacon of light in the clawing darkness that surrounds him. He wants to stay in this a little longer, wants to be with Steve for a little while.
They can start there, and Bucky nods, setting off in the direction of the hallway. Gifts and cake don't hold his attention; it's Steve who does, and as much as he can, Bucky would try to share it together with Steve; he would claw out of what keeps him buried for him. He has fleeting impressions, a warmth in his heart he doesn't understand, a feeling so alien to him that it's a touch unnerving. His brows knit faintly, glancing over at him. His gaze is drawn to the thin silver chain, and a part of him wonders what he wears -- has he always been wearing that? ]
I spent many of them with you. [ Almost a question, almost. ]
It's a natural pull of his body, allowing him into that personal space as they wander the corridors toward other areas of the ship. Steve doesn't know how well Bucky's learned the inner workings of it, probably well, but he isn't thinking of that as they walk together, as they move with shared purpose. He's remembering the years they'd done this, some better than others and Bucky's golden smile in the middle of it. Life had twisted deep the second they were no longer boys, but they always had those honest moments, birthdays full of laughter and too much Steve could never give to him but still tried nonetheless. And there were harder times too, when winters lingered too cold in Brooklyn and it dug into Steve's chest. But the good of it always outweighed the bad, and a smile ghosts his mouth like a lost friend returning home from the war, the weight of it a metal noose around his neck. ]
As many as I can remember. [ Had they really been so inseparable? A lifetime doesn't feel like much now. ] I don't-- Whatever we make of this day, I want it to be for you.
[ Even if, in the end, it means nothing but a few hours passed between friends. He will take that every day and consider it better than any number of birthdays and Christmases and New Years combined, and Steve's thoughts fill with the overflow of it, of knowing that all he has to do is glance just a fraction to his left and see the reason he lets the world break him down to the very bottom of his soul. He thinks it as they step onto the lift that will take them up to the mess hall and sighs inwardly. He needs this so desperately, and it hurts him when he stops looking. ]
[ The mind forgets, but the body remembers. They move in perfect synchronicity, as if they were tailor-made for each other's every movement, instinct written into his DNA. Even when he had been a killing machine he knew Steve's moves like his own; their fights had been a fluid, brutal dance, a dialogue that on hindsight should have been its own warning sign that he knew this man and had once loved him like he had been the other half of his soul.
He senses Steve's turmoil, the pain that he tries so hard to keep under wraps that makes Bucky's mouth dry. In such close proximity, he's more aware of Steve than he ever is, some vague impressions becoming clearly, filling in spaces. They were inseparable before; the exhibit was right.
He doesn't have the heart to tell him that this birthday doesn't matter to him personally -- that he comes to find more importance in what Steve takes out of it; and that is what Steve will have. And so instead, he asks quietly, ever aware of the proverbial elephant in the room. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
text.
Sometimes. [ Back then, it always rested on whether or not Steve had still been too sick to go out. He'd felt guilty every year Bucky had stayed in with him. ] We can do something later to celebrate - if you want.
text.
Birthdays, memories, little moments in time that define a life lived -- so much of it gone, replaced by nameless, fearful faces, so many of them begging to be spared. They say you are the sum of your memories and experiences, so what is he a sum of when he doesn't have that?
Steve tries hard, but Bucky can almost taste the sadness in those words. Even now, he's still hurting him.
It's on the tip of his tongue to refuse -- Steve doesn't need the reminder that the person he gives birthday wishes to isn't who he was anymore. Small mercies.
But he wants to remember more of it, not bits and pieces. He wants to take himself back; he owes that much to himself. Bucky tells him where he is, the invitation implicit in the text. ]
I'm in the gardens.
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Steve doesn't know what that says about the slow way they're mending, how any of it fits, and he figures he's not a good friend now because of it. Should he have said anything? Important dates like these were hard to forget, even harder when Bucky's birthday had first rolled around after he'd woken from the ice. Culture shock and loneliness, mourning him since he'd never had the chance before the crash. He swallows the memory of that and the few years that had followed, the hours spent wishing he could have saved him and had never let him slip through his fingers. It's a crushing weight, but this is trying. This is their white flag, and he's waving it fiercely even as his hand slips over the keys of the MID to send a response. ]
Give me ten minutes.
[ Though he only needs half that, slipping out of his room quietly so his roommates don't hear. He's dressed down too, an undershirt and sweats, and the only gift he really has to give him are the worn dog tags hanging around his neck he hasn't removed since they'd shown up in his mail. Steve wonders if he'd want them, if he'd know Steve carried that old life in his hands and was willing to offer it to Bucky when he was ready.
The garden is quiet, mostly vacant, and when Steve finds him, he doesn't say anything. He just moves close and lingers, waiting to be acknowledged. ]
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Steve's company is welcome, all things considered. This date is important to Steve, and so it must be for the man that he was, too. He's still slowly regaining bits and pieces of memory, but he knows enough to understand that he can never return to who he was before.
No, that man is long gone, lost to snow and frost. He turns his head briefly, holding out an unlit candle to him. ]
We've done this before.
[ In a humble, run-down little church in Brooklyn, dressed in their Sunday best. ]
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[ The words are soft, taking what Bucky offers and feeling their fingers brush just so—a momentary connection that fades when he pulls his hand away. The candles are probably there for different reasons, reasons that go beyond this garden and this ship, but Steve hasn't prayed in a long time, not like this. He crouches, staring at the flames of those already flickering with life. ] You never told me what you lit 'em for.
[ But they're personal, a silent wish for something good, though Steve could always guess. They knew each other inside and out, better than anyone. Now, there are too many secrets tied up in their names, tied up in themselves and this place to see it clearly. ]
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[ Bucky refers to the few candles he'd just lit here; he doesn't remember what he wished for, back in that church. Wishes don't come true, and prayers go unheard. There's no one paying attention to the candles that he lights. But he did light one for Steve, anyway. When Steve's fingers brush against his own too fleetingly, he has an impression of it, the way he used to do it when he was much smaller. The wish is not articulated, and he points to the candle he'd just lit. Steve would probably know what Bucky would wish for -- even if Bucky doesn't know it himself. ]
That one's for you.
[ He's known this man a lifetime, loved him and followed him to hell without question -- inseparable best friends and brothers-in-arms. Maybe it can't hurt to pretend to believe in wishes for Steve's sake. ]
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It's slow, but he presses the wick of his candle into the one Bucky has lit, gentle as it catches and he places it down next to it. His prayer, that wish, is one he's had since the mask had fallen and the smoke had cleared. You know me, he wants to say, and I know you too. Simple hopes complicated reality, and Steve tilts his head to look at him, studying him in the soft light at the bottom of a tree. ]
They're for us. [ Their choices, their lives. Them. Steve pulls himself to his feet, something else on the tip of his tongue before he's talking again. ] We're gonna make it, you know. You and me. Just like we always did. [ What comes out on the other side is another matter entirely, but he believes it anyway, grasps at it with a bleeding heart. New and changed, old and forgotten—nothing could stop them if they stood together. ]
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But Steve has always been aggressively, tenaciously optimistic -- he knows this truth to his bones; Steve with his bleeding heart, his determination and stubbornness. Bucky has a long way to go, but he stands up with him anyway, a knot in his throat keeping him from speaking for a few moments. What does he say in the face of this? What can he tell him? ]
I'm not who I was before.
[ I could still hurt you. ]
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They're both killers in their own right anyway, the twisted remains of men who had once called one another best friend. One carries it better than the other, though the weight of it is slowly destroying him, and the other— Steve looks at him for a rather long moment, taking in the gaunt lines of his face and the chaotic sweep of his hair, the shadows in eyes almost too gray to be blue. Here are the pieces of James Barnes, and he is going to hold them together whether he has the strength to do it or not, whether he wants him to or not. They were born for this, for each other, and Steve stands ready to fight for the most important person in his life.
He moves a step closer, cautious as he reaches out to touch him. It's light, the way his hand cups Bucky's shoulder, and he lets it rest there, his heart in his throat and his breath at a standstill. ]
At the end of the day, that's all I care about.
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There is a thread of tension in his shoulders nonetheless, his body and mind long having associated touch with the inevitable pain. It's something else he struggles to fight down and swallow. He meets those blue, blue eyes after a few moments, the silence fraught with unspoken words.
Even after all that Bucky's done, he still wants to be here for him -- it makes him want to laugh; it makes him want to tell him everything terrible he's ever done (and oh, there's so many). But this man is the most important person in his world, and he doesn't need to recover his memory wholly to know it in his bones, and where his heart used to be.
He exhales, before he pulls away from him, his hand barely coming to brush over his before it's gone. The depth of Steve's dedication is almost overwhelming, the trust he has in Bucky's lost goodness almost makes him want to hope again. Fight harder, for reasons that have everything to do with Steve Rogers and the way he looks at him. Bucky loved him the way he did no one else, a long time ago; he knows this, too. ]
Because you never know when to quit. [ He remembers this clearly, too. ] It's a bad habit.
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It's worked out for me so far. [ Even as careless as it's made him, it's brought them together. ] And you're the last thing I'd ever wanna give up on.
[ Because he had once. He'd let it consume him and then empty out into a hole too large to fill, and Steve looks at him because he's there, because he will never let him fade like a snapshot of nothing more than just a face. He is everything—his past, his future, the present with all its uncertainties. Yet, these conversations are exhausting, the hour already late, and Steve's own weariness has settled as bone-deep as a knife, pulling as he shifts and sways in a moment of indecisiveness. He hasn't mentioned the date again, and maybe he shouldn't, maybe the silence was better for that reason.
He struggles against his own stubbornness, lightly dragging his fingers through his hair. ] ... you thinking about staying here a while?
[ Or is he feeling spontaneous and wanting to spend a little more time with him? ]
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You said it was my birthday.
[ It doesn't mean anything to him personally, he doesn't deserve something this mundane and pleasant -- but sometimes things like these aren't so much for yourself as it is for the ones you love, and Bucky wonders if he loves Steve more than he hates himself when he continues after a few more moments, tentative and awkward. Stay with me. ]
What is there to do?
[ Half of him is hoping that there no answer to that, and the other half grasps at Steve's presence like he's water to his parched throat.
He shouldn't, he knows this. He's still a threat to his best friend, but right now his presence isn't an unbearable reminder of what could have been and what they could be. Right now, the man standing before him is the one who reached out to him when he had been hopelessly lost.
Right now, Steve looks lost, tired and sad, and something in him twinges, aches to comfort even if he doesn't remotely know where to start. ]
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On this ship? I don't know. [ There are only so many things to do, and none of them are worthy of a birthday he hasn't celebrated in a long time, of a birthday that's ached each and every time the calendar turned its pages. ] What would you wanna do? It's supposed to be your choice.
[ There are a few public areas, the mess hall too. There's the obligatory cake or something sweet if they could find it in the kitchen, but that could always wait until more of the crew were awake to assist with it. Of course, it leaves them at an impasse, and Steve isn't sure it's one Bucky is willing to cross just yet. Or at all. Dates don't mean anything; people do. Bucky does, and that's why he's there, why he's lingering and looking a bit awkward and ready to take anything he says and run with it to have another few seconds, another shard of memory to hold close and cherish. ]
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He wants to stretch this out for as long as his own nature allows him to, stealing every possible moment with him that could make his existence more memorable. Undeserved, of course, but needed like summer rain.
Steve is easy to read, and Bucky knows how his answer both surprises and delights him -- which is a touch bittersweet, considering the circumstances. He's ready to listen, to go with what he says, and when the choice is left up to him, Bucky frowns, lost. ]
I don't remember. [ Because it's not about him, not really. It's about Steve -- the human need to hold on to what's precious. To, for a few moments, pretend that everything will be well again, and to find it easier to believe in that. ]
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Well - [ And the pause is only a glance over his shoulder, in the direction of the hallway. ] - you can't have a birthday without cake. Gifts, too, I guess, but having someone to share it with is usually better.
[ If he can't remember, Steve will be that lifeline he needs to reach it. He will be everything—a hope that never falters, a hand that never slips. Steve will drag him through and lift him up, and maybe, one day, they can be what they were always meant to be. ] We can start there - if you want.
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He wants to hold on to that, his sole lifeline when everything else seems hell-bent on pushing him under. He could keep his eyes on Steve, and everything that he hopes, this beacon of light in the clawing darkness that surrounds him. He wants to stay in this a little longer, wants to be with Steve for a little while.
They can start there, and Bucky nods, setting off in the direction of the hallway. Gifts and cake don't hold his attention; it's Steve who does, and as much as he can, Bucky would try to share it together with Steve; he would claw out of what keeps him buried for him. He has fleeting impressions, a warmth in his heart he doesn't understand, a feeling so alien to him that it's a touch unnerving. His brows knit faintly, glancing over at him. His gaze is drawn to the thin silver chain, and a part of him wonders what he wears -- has he always been wearing that? ]
I spent many of them with you. [ Almost a question, almost. ]
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It's a natural pull of his body, allowing him into that personal space as they wander the corridors toward other areas of the ship. Steve doesn't know how well Bucky's learned the inner workings of it, probably well, but he isn't thinking of that as they walk together, as they move with shared purpose. He's remembering the years they'd done this, some better than others and Bucky's golden smile in the middle of it. Life had twisted deep the second they were no longer boys, but they always had those honest moments, birthdays full of laughter and too much Steve could never give to him but still tried nonetheless. And there were harder times too, when winters lingered too cold in Brooklyn and it dug into Steve's chest. But the good of it always outweighed the bad, and a smile ghosts his mouth like a lost friend returning home from the war, the weight of it a metal noose around his neck. ]
As many as I can remember. [ Had they really been so inseparable? A lifetime doesn't feel like much now. ] I don't-- Whatever we make of this day, I want it to be for you.
[ Even if, in the end, it means nothing but a few hours passed between friends. He will take that every day and consider it better than any number of birthdays and Christmases and New Years combined, and Steve's thoughts fill with the overflow of it, of knowing that all he has to do is glance just a fraction to his left and see the reason he lets the world break him down to the very bottom of his soul. He thinks it as they step onto the lift that will take them up to the mess hall and sighs inwardly. He needs this so desperately, and it hurts him when he stops looking. ]
no subject
He senses Steve's turmoil, the pain that he tries so hard to keep under wraps that makes Bucky's mouth dry. In such close proximity, he's more aware of Steve than he ever is, some vague impressions becoming clearly, filling in spaces. They were inseparable before; the exhibit was right.
He doesn't have the heart to tell him that this birthday doesn't matter to him personally -- that he comes to find more importance in what Steve takes out of it; and that is what Steve will have. And so instead, he asks quietly, ever aware of the proverbial elephant in the room. ]
What are we looking for?
[ We. ]