It’s almost funny, the way Steve tries to be sneaky about it.
Bucky’s seen it all before—the casual way Steve brings up “grabbing a coffee” like it’s any other day, the not-so-subtle glance at the calendar on the fridge, the way he keeps his voice easy, even when his eyes are full of something softer than he’d ever admit.
Bucky lets it slide. He figures it’s easier than arguing about why birthdays don’t really mean much when you’ve been technically dead for seventy years.
So here they are.
A small café in Brooklyn, the kind with baristas who have elaborate tattoos and a rotating selection of fancy pastries with names Bucky can’t pronounce. Steve orders plain black coffee—old habits—and Bucky orders the same, mostly out of spite.
The first sip is an assault.
Bucky grimaces. “Jesus. Tastes like burnt regret.”
Steve snorts. “Yeah, but it’s nostalgic.”
Bucky eyes him over the rim of his cup. “You miss this?”
Steve shrugs. “Kind of? Back in the day, coffee was bad, sure, but it was hot, and it was ours.”
Bucky doesn’t say anything, but he knows exactly what Steve means. Coffee wasn’t about taste back then. It was about something to cling to in the cold, about something normal in a world that had been turned to mud and blood and fire.
Bucky blows out a breath, takes another sip. “Still tastes like regret.”
Steve grins. “You wanna grab a croissant or something? Make the experience a little fancier?”
Bucky levels him with a look. “I don’t even know what the hell a croissant is, Steve.”
“Well, it’s like a flaky—”
“I don’t care.”
Steve laughs, easy and bright, and maybe, just maybe, the coffee doesn’t taste quite as bad anymore.
“You’re really making me work on my birthday?”
Steve looks over as they walk, the cold air biting but not unbearable. “It was your idea.”
Bucky shifts the bags in his arms, the weight familiar. “Yeah, well, seemed better than sitting around listening to Clint complain.”
“You know he’s gonna complain anyway, right?”
“Yeah, but this way I don’t have to hear it.”
The whole thing had started when Bucky mentioned—offhandedly, casually—that he used to help his Ma deliver meals to the older folks in their building when he was a kid. That had apparently been all the encouragement Steve needed.
Now they’re hauling containers of food through a residential complex in Queens, knocking on doors, handing over meals, listening to old-timers tell them stories that stretch on for decades.
Steve, of course, loves it.
Bucky doesn’t mind it either. He likes the way Steve’s shoulders loosen, the way he lights up talking to people who still remember the city the way it used to be.
One woman, Mrs. Kowalski, narrows her eyes at Bucky when she opens the door. “You look like that Barnes boy.”
Bucky blinks. “Uh. Yeah.”
She studies him, and for a second, Bucky braces himself for something—recognition, accusation, something.
But she just nods and says, “You were a little punk.”
Steve chokes on a laugh.
Bucky glares at him. “Well. Some things never change.”
Steve pats his shoulder, eyes full of something Bucky can’t quite place. “Nope.”
They move on, and Bucky doesn’t say anything, but there’s something settling about it—being seen, being placed. The world moved on without him, but at least someone remembers.
Later, they drop onto a bench in the park, bags empty, the weight of the day settling into their bones.
Bucky rolls his shoulders, trying to shake the feeling of exhaustion that isn’t entirely physical. “You think we did alright?”
Steve looks over at him, brows drawn slightly. “Bucky. We’ve done a lot of things in our lives. Some of them terrible. Some of them…” He exhales. “But today? Today was good.”
Bucky looks down at his hands. He flexes his metal fingers, watching the way the light glints off them. “Yeah,” he says, quiet. “I think so too.”
Steve nudges him with his shoulder. “Happy birthday, Buck.”
Bucky exhales through his nose, something like a laugh. “You just couldn’t help yourself, huh?”
“Nope.”
There’s a beat of silence before Bucky says, “Alright, I take it back. This is what regret tastes like.”
Steve grins, easy. “More nostalgic that way.”
Bucky shakes his head, but he doesn’t argue.
That night, Clint drops onto the couch in the common room with a dramatic sigh. “I cannot believe you two ditched me on meal duty.”
Bucky barely looks up from the TV. “I can.”
Clint glares. “Nat, tell them they missed out.”
Natasha, lounging across an armchair with a glass of wine, smirks. “Oh, yes. It was so thrilling. You, me, and Luke, carrying food while you complained the entire time.”
Clint huffs. “You guys are the worst.”
Luke, who just walked in, points at himself. “Don’t drag me into this.”
Clint waves dramatically. “I’m just saying, some people appreciate my company.”
Bucky looks at him, unimpressed. “Who?”
Steve, without missing a beat, goes, “The pigeons in Central Park.”
Natasha nearly spits out her wine.
Clint groans. “I hate all of you.”
Luke claps him on the back. “That’s the spirit.”
Bucky shakes his head, but there’s something warm in his chest.
He looks over at Steve, and Steve meets his eyes—steadily, unflinchingly, like he always has. Like he always will.
Bucky exhales. “Thanks for today, Stevie.”
Steve’s smile is small but real. “Anytime, Buck.”
And Bucky believes him.
Maybe some things do change.
But the important ones don’t.