December 31, 1938
“I can’t stay,” Bucky said, kissing his mother’s cheek, “I’ve got a standing engagement tonight with Steve, for cards; it’s a thing we do,” and Ma made a face said, “Well, you’ve still got to eat,” and wrapped up a quarter of a chicken and two baked potatoes. “Aw, thanks Ma, I know he’ll appreciate it—you know I do,” and Bucky tucked away the food in his knapsack and then stopped to pick up a small bottle of cheap American whiskey before heading over.
Steve came to the door in his shirt sleeves and suspenders, but he’d cleared the round table for cards and put out some bread and cheese, and bowls of walnuts and dried fruit. “Ma sent over a chicken,” Bucky said, by way of greeting. “And I bought some booze—fetch up some glasses, willya?” and Steve brightened and came back with two plates and two tumblers. Bucky poured out two glasses, then lifted his and clinked it against Steve’s. “Slainte mhaith,” he said, and Steve’s smile trembled a little bit before he replied, in a low serious voice, “Thanks, Buck.” They tossed back their drinks and then eagerly divvied up the chicken and potatoes and dived in, eating it with hunks of bread and cheese. Then they dealt out the cards for pinochle.
“Play it out, Steve,” Bucky smirked, as Steve briefly hesitated over his hand – kid had no poker face at all. “Those are the cards you got, so play ‘em,” and Steve’s face grew amused and determined in the familiar way, the one that said, “Sure, watch me.” Steve gave his hand one final look and then played his first card—and began to take trick after trick. “Jesus Christ, you,” Bucky groaned, as Steve forced him to throw away perfectly good clubs, goddammit.
In 1931, Steve had had a bout of rheumatic fever, and in 1935, he had it again--which was bad, Bucky knew: practically a goddamned death sentence. Steve hadn’t been the same, afterwards, either; even after the color’d finally returned to his cheeks it was like there was something broken inside of him – he was spiritless and weak-willed and not like Steven Grant Rogers at all. And so Bucky’d dragged him out to Grady’s and gotten him drunk on two glasses of beer and pried the truth out of him: that Steve had overheard the doctor tell his Ma that he’d likely be dead by New Year’s. “Bull-shit,” Bucky muttered; he hadn’t known what else to say, he’d been so shocked and horrified. “What God damned horse-shit. What is he, a medium? He can’t see into the future – no one can. You just stay in the goddamned game, Steve. You got cards in your hand, fucking play ‘em,” and that New Year’s Eve 1935, when it turned out Steve wasn’t dead after all, they had decided to give the bars a miss and just stay in and play cards together.
That was the start of it, and then the next year, Steve’s mother had died and so Bucky moved in and they did it again: this time getting drunk and playing cards all night long. The year after, 1937, Bucky’d gotten drunk well before midnight and the cards had started to blur in his hands. He looked across the table and said, softly, “You got a hand, Steve, you play it,” and Steve had stared at him for a long moment before throwing his cards down, standing, and shrugging off his suspenders. By the time he reached Bucky, his shirt was unbuttoned and his pants unzipped, and Bucky’d been able to put his hands onto Steve’s bony hips and stroke the sharp downward grooves with his thumbs. Steve was breathing hard, cock jutting out. That was okay, too.
Now, Steve finished melding his cards and, counting out 1200 points, he called it. “Deal again?” Steve asked him, gathering the cards together with both hands.
“Sure,” Bucky said, smiling, because it was an exquisite kind of torture, waiting. But it was gonna be 1939 soon and Steve Rogers still wasn’t dead, so that was a thing to be grateful for.
~ ~ ~
December 31, 2014
The DC streets were empty but the surrounding windows were all lit up with parties, people drinking and celebrating. Everyone’s Christmas decorations were still up. Sam had inveigled him into attending a party in Arlington, but Steve hadn’t felt in the spirit of things and so had slipped away early. He was enjoying the quiet of his own head as he sped his motorcycle back along the road toward home. It would be a relief to be alone and quiet for an while; he’d been on a roller-coaster since the Triskelion, pulled into various leadership roles in what was left of the government when all he wanted to do was pursue his own private agenda, to find Bucky Barnes.
Now he parked his motorcycle on the side of his building, hearing the distant thump-thump of what passed for music these days, as well as the sounds of raised voices, shrieks of laughter. That was across the street, thank goodness; his own building was dark and reassuringly empty—no one home now that Sharon Carter’s cover had been blown, and the gay couple on the first floor had turned out to be spies, too: CIA. They’d all moved out in shame after the Triskelion.
He supposed he could have moved downstairs or taken more space, but he liked the light on his floor and it wasn’t like he needed more space, so he climbed the three flights to his own door. Which was ajar—and Steve went still, momentarily considering his options before letting out his held breath and deciding to press onward. The door had been left ajar deliberately, he thought, maybe even invitingly. He pushed it open gently and went in, not trying to quiet his feet on the boards.
The lamp had been switched on over the dining table, which was set in the old way with two plates, two glasses, a bottle of whiskey and a pack of cards. Steve stared at this display for a long moment, thinking, if you’ve got a hand, Buck, you play it. And then a voice from the shadows—rusted, unused—said awkwardly, “I brought a chicken, I don’t know if you still like chicken.”
“I still like chicken,” Steve said haltingly, “of course I do.” Feeling like a man in a dream, Steve went over the table, uncorked the whiskey, and poured out two glasses with a shaky hand. Bucky didn’t come into the light, though, and so Steve brought the glasses over to where he was clinging to the dark. Bucky looked awful, unslept, like he’d been living rough, dark shadows spreading under his exhausted eyes. But he was watching Steve’s every move with avid wonder.
And then he took the glass from Steve’s unsteady hand and gently knocked it against Steve’s own. “Slainte mhaith,” he scraped out.
“You, too,” Steve replied, and together they drank to the New Year, and the future.