(your prompts are ruining me lately, okay. I had to!)
--
take my only souvenir, toss it up high.
Steve hasn't seen Bucky in months. They met once, briefly, when Steve was tracking down a HYDRA agent, and they fought the agent together, but afterward Bucky just looked at him and said, "I'm not ready, Steve," and it was enough, at the time, that Bucky knew his name.
(It's never really enough.)
He hasn't seen Bucky in months, and he hasn't done the fireworks thing since he woke up.
(Since they woke him up, like they did Bucky, more times than Steve likes to think about.)
When they were kids, they loved it: the lights, the noise, that feeling, for a minute, of invincibility.
(Steve thinks they've both had enough of invincibility to last a couple of lifetimes.)
He watches the display for a minute, but when he turns to go Bucky's – there.
Just there. Waiting for him. His hair is long, longer than it's ever been, and his left arm is held down like he doesn't want Steve to notice it.
(Steve always will, but not because he's afraid of it, because it's a reminder of what they did to him.)
But he's here. Bucky's here, when he could be anywhere else; he has that freedom, now, to be anywhere he wants to be.
But he's here, looking at Steve, eyes lit up from the light show above them.
(Once, when he was still small, Steve clambered onto Bucky's shoulders to see above the crowd, and Bucky held onto him for what felt like hours. He must have been exhausted, but when Steve offered to get back down, Bucky wouldn't let him go. "Let's just keep watching the lights.")
Steve doesn't speak first. Can't, in case it scares him off. He waits, and Bucky's lips tilt up like somewhere underneath decades of programming a smile can survive and says, "Happy birthday, Stevie."
And Steve can't hear the fireworks for the sound of his heart beating loud and happy, can't see the lights for the way Bucky's face lights up, just for a moment, when Steve smiles at him and says, "Thanks."
They walk home through the crowds, ignoring the stares and the talk, ignoring the fireworks in the sky and everything else but each other. Right now, that's all that matters.
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timeasmymeasure
fill
Date: 2014-07-04 02:35 pm (UTC)--
take my only souvenir, toss it up high.
Steve hasn't seen Bucky in months. They met once, briefly, when Steve was tracking down a HYDRA agent, and they fought the agent together, but afterward Bucky just looked at him and said, "I'm not ready, Steve," and it was enough, at the time, that Bucky knew his name.
(It's never really enough.)
He hasn't seen Bucky in months, and he hasn't done the fireworks thing since he woke up.
(Since they woke him up, like they did Bucky, more times than Steve likes to think about.)
When they were kids, they loved it: the lights, the noise, that feeling, for a minute, of invincibility.
(Steve thinks they've both had enough of invincibility to last a couple of lifetimes.)
He watches the display for a minute, but when he turns to go Bucky's – there.
Just there. Waiting for him. His hair is long, longer than it's ever been, and his left arm is held down like he doesn't want Steve to notice it.
(Steve always will, but not because he's afraid of it, because it's a reminder of what they did to him.)
But he's here. Bucky's here, when he could be anywhere else; he has that freedom, now, to be anywhere he wants to be.
But he's here, looking at Steve, eyes lit up from the light show above them.
(Once, when he was still small, Steve clambered onto Bucky's shoulders to see above the crowd, and Bucky held onto him for what felt like hours. He must have been exhausted, but when Steve offered to get back down, Bucky wouldn't let him go. "Let's just keep watching the lights.")
Steve doesn't speak first. Can't, in case it scares him off. He waits, and Bucky's lips tilt up like somewhere underneath decades of programming a smile can survive and says, "Happy birthday, Stevie."
And Steve can't hear the fireworks for the sound of his heart beating loud and happy, can't see the lights for the way Bucky's face lights up, just for a moment, when Steve smiles at him and says, "Thanks."
They walk home through the crowds, ignoring the stares and the talk, ignoring the fireworks in the sky and everything else but each other. Right now, that's all that matters.