“Sitting in the dark in the middle of the night brooding by yourself — who do you think you are? Me?” Bucky said, as he wandered into the living room.
“What can I say?” Sam replied, sliding Bucky what he assumed was supposed to be a smile, but actually looked more like a grimace. “I guess you’re rubbing off on me.”
“So,” he sat down on the couch next to Sam, “on a scale of one to ten, just how bad was this birthday?”
Sam blinked, sitting the tumbler of cognac he was nursing down on the coffee table in front of him.
“How’d you know it was my birthday?”
Bucky gave him a disbelieving look.
“Certainly you don’t think I didn’t spend time researching the strange guy who was chasing me down for months on end?” He asked, mockingly. “Even on the run I was able to collect plenty of information about one Samuel Thomas Wilson, born September 23, 1978, 8 pounds 5 ounces. Social Security Number: 354-14…” He trailed off, smiling at the annoyed look on Sam’s face. “Well, let’s just say I know a lot about you, Wilson.”
“Right.”
“Besides,” he added, trying not to laugh, “Happy Birthday, Cap has been trending on Twitter all day.”
“Why do you have a Twitter account?”
“Cass and AJ set one up for me.” He shrugged. “It seems rude to not use it at least sometimes.”
“Oh,” Sam said, feeling oddly happy that Bucky so obviously cared about his nephews’ feelings. Then he immediately felt embarrassed for feeling any kind of way about it at all.
“Anyway,” Bucky continued, thankfully unaware of Sam’s face being on fire. “You never did answer my question.”
Sam snorted. “Well, I spent an hour scrubbing alien slime off my body in the shower and still don’t feel clean, but, then again, we didn’t die, so… I guess I’ll give it a four.”
“Wait — is one the best or the worst?”
“What do you think?”
“I…” he paused for a moment, then, “I honestly don’t know.” He laughed. “Either way though, how does this not fall at the worst point on the scale?”
“Because I’m grading on a curve and this isn’t my worst birthday,” Sam answered matter-of-factly, then polished off his Courvoisier.
“Well,” Bucky said expectantly, when Sam didn’t elaborate.
“Well what?”
“What was your worst birthday?”
Such a simple question, but it caused such a bitter feeling to instantly spread through Sam’s chest. His mind suddenly went to the day before his fourteenth birthday. One minute his mom was singing in the kitchen while she cooked dinner, the next minute she was answering the phone and almost immediately letting out the kind of wail he’d never heard before or since and hoped to never hear again.
Titi Lynn who pulled double duty as his aunt and godmother, who always had an extra hug or kind word for him, who he’d loved more than anyone else outside of his immediate family. One speeding truck on one country road and she was suddenly gone forever.
The next day, his birthday, he’d had to watch Sarah while his mama and daddy went to make funeral arrangements and Gideon took care of the boat.
So, no, a little green goo from some wayward aliens may have been annoying, but it definitely wasn’t the worst birthday he’d ever had.
And for a second he thought about telling Bucky all that, but his day had already been pretty shitty and he seriously doubted that giving Bucky a blow by blow of one of the most awful days of his life was going to do anything to improve it.
Yeah, their family and the entire neighborhood may have spent the next week celebrating Titi Lynn’s life, but that first day after she passed, his birthday, had been rough.
“Bet you wish you’d taken that drink in your room huh?” Bucky joked weakly, interrupting Sam’s continued silence.
It was hard to miss the frown that had taken over Sam’s face when he asked about his worst birthday, and as soon as he saw it Bucky could’ve kicked himself. Bucky was expecting some lighthearted tale about not getting a particular toy or maybe a birthday ruined by another mission, but from the expression Sam was wearing it was clear that whatever birthday he was reliving in his mind was far worse than that.
Bucky didn’t want to pry. Well, actually he definitely wanted to pry. He wanted to know everything about Sam: the good, the bad, the ugly, and the depressing too, but he knew they weren’t there yet.
Just like he knew that even though Sam was always the first to offer to talk and hash out someone else’s problems, he was typically far less eager to discuss his own.
“On second thought, maybe you should tell me about that later. You’re maudlin enough as it is,” he said, trying to keep his tone light. “Besides, I think I want to hear about your best birthday instead.”
It was an obvious out, and Sam was grateful for it because it spared him from having to be flat out rude. But, then again, he didn’t particularly want to talk about anything, so…
“Bucky—
“Come on,” Bucky interrupted, sending Sam what he hoped was a cajoling smile. “What’s a ten birthday for Sam Wilson… or a one… I guess?”
Sam rolled his eyes, but he could feel an involuntary smile suddenly tugging at his lips, and he knew it was because of the hopeful look on Bucky’s face.
Bucky was still rusty as far as these things went, but he was also clearly trying to be a better coworker… partner… friend, and had been for the past few months, and Sam appreciated the effort more than he maybe should have.
Enough that he didn’t want to discourage it, foul mood or not. But, still…
“I honestly don’t know man…”
Sam trailed off, biting his bottom lip in the adorable way he always did, but never seemed to be aware he was doing, and Bucky’s stomach gave a little flip.
“I guess,” he paused, and his lips suddenly quirked. “I guess it’d have to be the birthday I turned seventeen.”
Bucky made a go on gesture with his hands when Sam paused again and Sam huffed, but Bucky could tell it was mostly for show. For the first time since their work cells had gone off that morning, Bucky started to see a little bit of Sam’s regular sparkle back in his eyes.
“Okay, so when I was a kid, birthdays were a big deal, sure, but also they weren’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“Me, Sarah, Gideon — none of us ever had a birthday party. Mama had a weird thing about them. I never got the full story, but the gist of it was: when she was young, one of her cousins had a birthday party and invited their whole class, and none of them showed up. I guess it sort of traumatized my mom by proxy or something, because after that she didn’t really believe in birthday parties,” he explained.
“Wipe that scandalized look off your face, Barnes,” Sam said, laughing, as he took in Bucky’s expression. “Not having a party can’t honestly be that shocking to you. I mean, did they even have birthday parties back in your day, or did you guys just play with some sticks, split an orange, and call it a day?”
“Nope. Oranges were strictly for Christmas,” he deadpanned, then shrugged. “And I’m not scandalized. I’m just… surprised I guess.”
“Well, whatever,” he gave a shrug of his own, “we still had fun. The birthday person got to pick what they wanted for dinner, and of course there were presents, usually whatever we asked for, but there was always one surprise too.”
“Maybe a trip to the skating rink or a movie, something small but cool, but on this particular birthday my parents surprised me with flying lessons. You could’ve knocked me over with a feather,” he said, shaking his head as if he still couldn’t believe it.
Flying lessons for a teenager? Bucky could hardly believe it himself.
“Really?”
“Really. To this day, I don’t get it. By then I’d made my intentions to join the AirForce and learn to fly clear, and everybody had been less than enthusiastic about it.”
Understatement of the year.
“Honestly, part of me wonders if they were hoping the lessons would scare me straight, or maybe they thought it would get my desire to fly out of my system, but all it did was make me even more eager to join.”
“Anyway, the first lesson was scheduled for that same day. We spent a long time just going over and over the various pre-flight checklists until they stuck with me, and then I got to start the plane, but the rest of that initial lesson was basically me just sitting there while the instructor lectured me on what he was doing. It was still amazing though - exhilarating.”
“I spent hours with Mr. Kessler that first day, but we were only up in the air for maybe half that time. And when we came down, even though my knees were shaking and my stomach was rolling, I knew I was going to be flying for the rest of my life.”
Sam seemed almost lost in thought after he finished speaking, and Bucky let him be for a minute, content to just stare at the small smile on Sam’s face. Well, until Sam came back to himself and caught Bucky looking his fill.
“So that’s a number one birthday for Sam Wilson?” He asked, before Sam could call him out on his staring.
Sam rolled his eyes, but he was laughing.
“A ten, Bucky,” he corrected. “And it wasn’t only the flying, although that put it over the top. It really was just a perfect day. Flying lessons aren’t cheap, so they were my special surprise and my present, and honestly I would’ve been more than happy with that being it as far as my birthday celebration went, but when I got home my mom had made my favorite dinner, even though I’d been so distracted by my gift that morning that I’d forgotten to request it.”
“And what’s your favorite dinner?” Bucky asked, as if he didn’t already know. As if he hadn’t been on the phone with Sarah last week awkwardly interrogating her about what Sam liked to eat besides protein bars and seafood, while she barely tried to conceal her amusement.
“Baked spaghetti, which sounds simple enough to whip up, but it’s harder than you’d think.”
“But your mom did it right,” he said, knowingly.
“Of course.” Sam grinned. “My dad was a beast on the grill, and there was nothing my mom couldn’t cook… or bake,” he added. “Oh man, I wish you could’ve tried her chocolate cake, Bucky. Shoot, I really wish I could have it again.”
“I miss that cake,” he continued, and although he was just smiling a second before, his lips started to droop and there was suddenly a distant look in his eyes that seemed to come out of nowhere. “You know when I first got out the service and was feeling pretty nostalgic,” — And sad… about a lot of things: his parents, Riley, his somewhat estranged relationship with his siblings — “I actually tried to make it a couple of times, but it never came out quite right.”
He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the unhappy memories that had suddenly flooded his mind. “Well, maybe I can bribe Sarah to make it for me the next time we’re down there.”
Bucky was so stuck on Sam’s use of “we” that he almost missed the perfect opening that Sam had just given him.
But right when he started to speak, Sam beat him to it.
“Anyway, I guess I ought to stop talking your head off and go to bed.”
“Sam—” He tried to interrupt, but Sam continued.
“Wait,” Sam said, holding up a hand. “Just, uhh, thanks for this, Bucky. Thanks for basically bugging me into talking,” he joked. “I was sitting here feeling sorry for myself, but this — remembering the good times — it really helped.”
Bucky felt his cheeks warming, and hoped it wasn’t as noticeable as it felt.
“I’m glad,” he said, smiling softly.
They stared at one another for a moment, and Bucky was about half a second from closing the distance between them and going for it, but then Sam snapped out of his momentary trance and stood up.
And Bucky realized he’d missed another opportunity to do the very thing he’d originally come into the room to do.
“Well, goodnight,” Sam said, and turned to walk away, but Bucky was up in a second and grabbed his arm.
Sam turned back to face him, eyebrows practically at his hairline. “Bucky, what—
“I thought you said you always got a surprise on your birthday,” he cut in.
“Yeah…”
“Well, okay then.” He let go of Sam’s arm. “Follow me,” he said, and headed towards the kitchen without another word.
Sam was confused, but his curiosity had him following along.
Once they were in the kitchen, Bucky flipped on the light switch, opened one of the many cabinets they never used due to a ridiculous lack of dishes, and pulled out a domed cake stand that Sam had never seen before in his life.
Inside it sat, quite possibly, the ugliest chocolate cake that had ever been made.
But it was beautiful to Sam.
“Buck—
“Since I knew you couldn’t be there in Delacroix, I had a whole thing planned,” Bucky said, looking anywhere but at Sam. “Me making baked spaghetti was out of the question, I’m more of a buttered noodles kind of guy.” He let out a self-deprecating laugh and scratched the back of his neck. “But before I knew aliens were going to show up out of nowhere, I’d made reservations at The Milano Inn. I rescheduled this morning after you got off the phone with Hill, but I don’t know, I thought you might still want to try your cake tonight.”
He finally made himself meet Sam’s gaze. “I made it myself… surprise.”
Surprise was the right word, because this was the last thing Sam had seen coming when he’d gone to sulk on the couch after spending an unreasonably long time in the shower trying to wash his less than satisfying day away.
“Bucky, thank you.”
“Well, don’t thank me yet,” he said, feeling some of his nervousness melt away now that he saw Sam’s reaction. “You have to taste it first.”
He grabbed a couple of paper plates, plastic forks, and a knife, and made quick work of cutting a piece and handing it to Sam.
It was lopsided and overly crumbly, but it smelled good and didn’t appear to be burnt, so Sam took a bite.
And the moment he tasted it, he immediately sank into the nearest chair.
Oh God. What did I do wrong? Bucky thought, immediately going straight to panic. I’ve poisoned him. I’ve poisoned Captain America.
“Sam, what's wrong?” Bucky quickly came over to his side. “Is it—
“It’s perfect,” Sam whispered, then quickly wiped at his eyes. “It’s perfect, Bucky.”
Yeah, it was hideous, and the frosting had been applied almost too generously, but the taste was perfect.
It tasted like birthdays. It tasted like Christmas and the 4th of July and Thanksgiving, all wrapped in one. Like Sunday evenings and picnics on the docks. Shit. It tasted like home.
“How did you…” Sam paused, and had to clear his throat. “How did you do this?”
“Sarah,” he said, simply, sitting down in the chair closest to Sam’s, but off Sam’s expectant look, he continued. “She told me it was your favorite, and I had to beg for the recipe and promise I’d only make it for you, but she eventually gave it to me. I made it yesterday while you were training with Joaquin and then hid it so I could pull it out tonight after dinner, but then aliens happened…”
“Well, it’s delicious. Seriously, Bucky, thank you,” he said, and reached over and gave his hand a squeeze.
“Happy birthday, Sam.”
Bucky’s cheeks were now pinker than ever, and he was staring at Sam like he often did, but Sam saw something new in his eyes.
Or, maybe it wasn’t new, maybe it had always been there, but Sam was seeing it for the first time, and when he recognized it for what it was, he closed the small distance between them and pressed his lips against Bucky’s.
It was barely a kiss, but Sam’s heart started beating in triple time anyway.
Happy birthday to me.