With tireless care, Steve guides the pencil further across the page, painstakingly sketching out the lines that had already lightly grazed the surface of the piece of paper, making them turn darker, exuberant with details under the pressure of the black graphite lead. There it is—his ma’s apartment, suddenly come to life before his eyes, memories turned into materialized temples of red brick underneath his fingertips; exuding the same melancholic comfort that follows the steps which the past takes into the present. If he looked close enough, if the peripheral outlines of the furniture in his new room merged with the shadowy shapes of the early morning, could he, if only for an instant, come back home? Could he, if only for one beat heard from oh so far away, catch a couple of notes from the records his ma would play on his birthday, when they would dance in the breezy living room with windows wide open, the curtains floating jauntily in the sunlight, the streets buzzing with upbeat chatter and vagabond trumpets for the celebration of the Fourth of July?
Almost. Almost. Not quite entirely, not quite as fully, as strongly as he wishes. The memories are not quite as clear as he wants them to be—already, the shimmer in his ma’s eyes fades from the years that keep Steve and her apart; the apartment is coated with a film of dust that time cannot brush off. But for now, almost is good enough.
At least, Steve remembers the flimsy snapshots from his youth just enough to still be able to draw them from memory, like he would sometimes do when, all alone in this at first cold and unwelcoming Avengers Tower room, he sought a type of solace he could not find anywhere else but in the murmurs of his pencil scratching against paper as he finally did something for himself, something to take him away for a little while—to simpler times. How strange it is, to be a man out of time. Today is Steve’s birthday, but he never makes a fuss about it; rather, his usual waking up after sunrise is followed, instead of a morning run, by the solitary quietness that allows him to clear his head for the rest of the day. He would then abandon the temporary shelter of his room and meet his team-mates, smiling and rolling his eyes at their birthday wishes and teasing remarks, trying to evade all the attention. But before that, Steve’s mind wanders—to that place, across time and space, where a birthday celebration makes the eyes of a skinny blond boy shine from eagerness and he impatiently awaits, before sleep weighs down on his eyelids, the twelfth strike of the clock that marks the dawn of July 4th.
Growing up during the Great Depression, gifts weren’t hanging on trees—or were they? Steve very meticulously guides his pencil over the sketched out living room table, where he places, with a few strokes, a round and scaly shape sitting on the tablecloth. A pineapple. Steve remembers that present so well that his heart is immediately overcome with a warm feeling, strong enough to momentarily soften nostalgia’s cutting edges.
On that birthday of his—was it his thirteenth? fourteenth?—Steve had woken up in the cheerful mood that came with the yearly prospect of a day a little more special than the rest; full of surprises he could only half-guess, and glee painted over his loved ones’ faces, and even fireworks! Those were for Independence day, and Steve, by his ma’s side, would follow their fiery tails from the window, watching, eyes bright from wonderment, the colorful sparkles take form as loud explosions set off in the nightly sky.
But before the evening spectacle came presents—having been raised in a poor family, Steve never expected anything extravagant, let alone rare, nor wanted for his mother to go through any kind of trouble to get him something extraordinary, so even the smallest gift was more than enough to arouse the boy’s excitement. On that day, Steve remembers, something truly delightful had been waiting for him: as he had made his way into the living room, still rubbing slumber off his eyelashes, it had not been long before he noticed the unusual item crowning the living room table, sunlight softly falling upon its hard yellowish surface.
A pineapple! And quite a big one too!
His ma had somehow managed to bring home the beautiful fruit, which they had then slowly savored throughout the day, delicately cutting off pieces so as to not leave any of the soft, sugary flesh behind. She had also baked an apple pie, a real one, unlike the mock ones they would sometimes eat for desert, and Bucky had come over to play, and offered his friend a delectable piece of chocolate cake. Steve had hugged his ma and best friend tightly, cheeks flushed and happiness radiating off him—nothing could have been able to take it away from him, not on that day; not when he was surrounded by Sarah Rogers and Bucky Barnes.
That pineapple is still crowning the living room table. Only, it is a mere drawing now, the last thing that Steve can still grasp from that Fourth of July, so long ago. With a quick brush from the back of his hand, he wipes away tears, but the corners of his mouth are still stretched in a gentle smile, full of remembrance and love. Even though irreversible decades separate him from his ma, from Bucky, from the boy he used to be, they still live on in his heart, somewhere in a corner where they will remain protected forever. And Steve is grateful; so grateful to have had such irreplaceable people in his life, who made birthdays so enjoyable to celebrate.
Suddenly, a knock on the door pulls Steve out of his daydreaming. Listening closely, he thinks he might have hallucinated, but the knocking resumes, louder this time.
“Cap, are you in there?” Much to Steve’s astonishment, Tony’s voice is the one calling out to him—Iron Man is usually not one to rise early. “Don’t tell me you’re not up yet, grandpa? It’s almost eight!”
“Uh, Tony? What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong? Nothing’s wrong, besides maybe the fact that you haven’t seen the light of day yet! Come on, get outta here, it’s yours and America’s birthdays. Don’t tell me you’re not dying to wiggle that star-spangled banner all around!”
“Alright,” a chuckle pierces through Steve’s sigh. “I’ll be out in a couple of minutes.”
Steve shows up after having put away his art supplies and left his almost finished canvas, abandoning his silent activity for the unstoppable (but somewhat endearing, Steve found out) prattle of his teammate.
“There he is, the star-spangled man himself!” Tony shouts playfully and invites Steve to join them with a wide gesture to put him on the spot. “Happy birthday, grandpa. What does that make you? 103?”
“Yes, something along those lines.”
“Still not as old as me, but happy birthday,” Thor chimes in, smiling satisfactorily as he pats his friend’s back.
“Not that it’s a competition…” Tony gives the God of thunder a pointed look as the rest of the group keeps congratulating Steve.
“Happy birthday, Steve,” it is Natasha’s turn to join in, offering Steve a sincere smile of appreciation. “We know you don’t really like to party, but I hope you won’t say no to a piece of cake. It’s from your 40’s bakery, in Brooklyn. Hope it was worth the run.”
Next thing Steve knows, a plate is shoved into his hands, a thick piece of still warm apple crumble taking up almost its entire surface. The delicious waft emanating from it announces that he is in for a treat. Apple—his favorite.
“Thank you,” a little chocked up from how much it reminds him of his ma, Steve takes a spoonful of crumble to please his friends, savoring the delicious taste of slightly caramelized apples mixed with sweet dough, and a touch of cinnamon. There is no doubt about it, it is heavenly. “Thank you all so much. You know I don’t really like to make a fuss about my birthday, but it means a lot to me. So thank you.”
“Don’t sweat it. We’re glad to have you, Cap. The Fourth of July wouldn’t quite be the same without you,” Tony’s hand sets on Steve’s shoulder, squeezing it. “Happy birthday, Cap.”
“Thank you.”
It seems that every Fourth of July, Steve has irreplaceable people to be thankful for—today is no exception to the rule.