happy birthday to steve rogers, the kid too dumb to run away from a fight with a heart of gold. thank you for being my biggest comfort character and my source of joy and inspiration <3
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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 the past takes into the present. If he looked close enough, if the peripheral rims 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 danced in the breezy living room, the windows wide open, the curtains floating jauntily in the sunlight, the streets aglow with whirlwinds of 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 is faded 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, the Captain sought a type of solace he couldn't find anywhere else but in the murmurs of pencil against paper, finally doing 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 wake 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'd then walk out to meet with his teammates, smiling and rolling his eyes at their birthday wishes and teasing remarks, trying to sweep out 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, his heart is immediately lapped with a warm feeling strong enough to momentarily drive away nostalgia's cutting edges, only leaving room for the fragment of joy he's been carrying around ever since that day whenever the latter would resurface upon the shores of his mind.
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 one's 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 colourful sparkles taking form as loud explosions set off in the nightly sky. But before the evening spectacle came presents—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 hadn't been long before he noticed the unusual item crowning the living room table, sunlight softly falling upon its sharp curves. A pineapple! And quite a big one too! His ma had somehow managed to bring home the beautiful fruit, which they had then slowly delighted in throughout the day, delicately cutting off pieces so as to not leave any of the yellow, 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 offer his friend a delectable chocolate cake. Steve had hugged his ma and best friend tightly, cheeks flushed and happiness radiating off him—nothing could've 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 Steve can still grasp from that Fourth of July, so long ago. With a quick brush from the back of his hand, the Captain 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, the Captain is thinking he might have hallucinated it, but the knocking resumes, more vigorous this time.
"Cap, are you in there?" Much to Steve's astonishment, Tony's voice is the one calling out to him—Iron Man isn't usually 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."
And, indeed, the Captain 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, gesturing widely toward the Captain 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 mutters, eyeing the God of thunder in incomprehension as the rest of the group keeps congratulating the Captain.
"Happy birthday, Steve," it is Natasha's turn to join in, the widow giving 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 and the delicious waft emanating from it announcing that he's in for a treat. Apple—his favourite.
"Thank you," a little chocked up from how much it reminds him of his ma, Steve takes a spoonful of crumble to immediately please his friends, savouring the toothsome taste of apples mixed with sweet pastry and a touch of cinnamon. There's 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, slightly 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.
