"It's a big city, a bit of a tourist trap, I think– so there's bound to be something fun to do." Steve took a sip of his juice, remembering the significantly quieter streets of the old Brooklyn, no hot dog stands or 'Best Pizza in New York' on every corner.
Bucky nodded a little bit. "Hasn't it always been a bit of one, though?" he asked, taking another bite of pancake, thinking and trying to put together the fragmented pieces of memory, trying to puzzle out anything he remembered of New York.
"It was always busy, that I remember." Steve said, "But it wasn't exactly picturesque, with the whole 'Great Depression’ thing goin' on. But we always managed to find something to do. Most of the time it was marbles and card games," He shook his head, smiling at the memories they shared in the dingy streets of Brooklyn. "There was this old place— behind this brown apartment complex, a tiny courtyard connecting to two alleyways that split off onto both out streets. That way, we’d make in time for dinner." That was our spot.
Bucky nodded a little bit, vague, half there memories floating through his mind at Steve's words. He couldn't quite grasp specific memories, but he knew the place Steve described, knew what it had looked like and been like. He ran a hand through his hair, wishing he could remember more.
Steve leaned against the counter, thinking for a minute, "I remember…we gambled our favourite agate one in a game for keeps, and we won the other guy's clearest cat eye, we were in awe." He chuckled softly, "I think we buried it…as 'treasure,' somewhere."
Bucky smiled a little bit. "I'm sure it's been dug up by someone or other, by now." He replied. He didn't remember that, but hoped that…that someday he would. He finished his pancakes.
"Yeah, probably." Steve smiled, eating the last of his breakfast and remembering how sure they'd felt on that day; realizing that they had something that would last forever, too precious to show off to the world and better kept a secret from everyone else. His thoughts had strayed. Was I still referencing the marble?
Bucky took a sip of juice, then turned around to look around the room, quiet. He sighed softly, running his fingers through his hair and trying to think. Trying to figure out what to do.
"The pancakes okay?" Steve asked, standing up to clear their plates, remembering his pleasant surprise when he found out about the world's large affinity for new types of instant meals. People were picky now, always wanting foods to be a certain way– 'organic,' and 'non-GMO,' ridiculous, he thought.
Bucky nodded. "Yeah, they were pretty good." He replied, standing and stretching, then walking to the window to look outside. He looked down first, then up, then out at the skyline.
"Thanks," Steve nodded, loading the dishwasher and eyeing a brewed pot of coffee. Whoops. "Do you want some coffee? I forgot– I made some earlier." He glanced over the counter.
Bucky laughed, turning around. "Yeah, sure." He replied, walking over. His brown hair hung loose into his face, just a little bit, and he brushed it back, tucking a strand behind his ear.
Steve pulled two mugs out of the cupboard and poured the steaming coffee into them, humming absentmindedly. Back then, coffee was some Maxwell House with some sugar if you could get it. Now, it was such an artisanal thing; with all the different types and ways to drink it– different ratios of milk and foam and making all these interesting patters on the top. It was overwhelming at first, but soon enough he'd gotten his morning coffee down to a science. Steve grabbed the half-and-half from the fridge and the sugar, preparing his cup of joe with practiced precision.
Bucky watched him carefully, eyebrow raising a little bit as Steve got out the other supplies. He took a sip of his juice, brushing back a few locks of hair that had gotten into his face.
Steve watched as the milk clouded into his coffee, happily swirling in its own current. He took a sip, and let out a happy sound at the taste. "It's the little things," Steve smiled.
Bucky nodded, and reached out to take his own cup of coffee. "Mm." he replied softly, taking a sip of his coffee. He looked at Steve for a moment.
Steve smiled at Bucky from the rim of his mug, leaning over the counter and looking through the windows ahead.
Bucky glanced at the windows again after a moment, leaning against the counter a little bit. The ex-assassin was framed by the morning light, the sun glinting on his metal arm.
Steve sighed softly, taking a moment of gratitude towards whatever force brought them together again. The old Bucky would have been talking his ear off now, wandering around the room and going on about some wild story, and Steve would be trying his best to pay attention, just smiling and watching the way his eyes widened at important parts and shine when he'd laugh. But now it was different.
Bucky tucked back a stray strand of hair, sighing softly and taking a sip of coffee. The coffee wasn't hot enough to burn his tongue, thankfully. He glanced at Steve for a moment, then away again, unsure what to say, if anything.
Steve thought back to the sun hitting his balcony that morning where he'd gotten a call from Tony, and what he'd said. "I don't know if this is the right time to say, but Tony and I both think it might be good for you to see a therapist." He blurted out, staring at his coffee as he did.
Bucky tensed a little bit, looking down at the counter and running a finger along it. "No." He replied. "I don't want to see a therapist." His voice was distant, removed and cold now.
"Why not?" Steve questioned, trying to see his angle in this. He knew that HYDRA had hurt him, taken away everything from him. So why couldn't he see that doing this might help? "It's what you need."
"I don't want to. And what do you know about what I need?" Bucky's lips flattened into a thin line, not looking at Steve.
"–That you need help. That's what I know." Steve said, trying to meet Bucky's gaze. So much for an easy morning. "I know that you need to understand what happened to you. And that you deserve some clarity."
"I understand plenty." Bucky replied, taking a sip of coffee. "And I don't need to talk about it with some quack that thinks he knows more about my head than I do."
"It's not about 'knowing' things, Buck, it's about helping you." Steve tried to reason, "They already know about these things and how it hurts people from the inside." He took a breath, "It's a way for you to work through some of that stuff," Since you can't share it with me.
Bucky shook his head, looking down at the coffee cup. "I don't want to talk about it with some random ass stranger. Or with anyone." he set his jaw stubbornly.
"Well, the fact that you don't want to talk about it means that it's something hard to think about." Steve shook his head, remembering every hollow look he'd seen on him, his reflexive hostility, how he couldn't sleep on a mattrass–
"–And you shouldn't change the way you live just to avoid feeling that pain."
"I said I'm not seeing a therapist." Bucky replied in a voice that was almost a growl. "And I mean that." he set his coffee cup down before he could squeeze too hard and shatter it.