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The diner is done up in a '50s style--all red, black, white, and chrome decor and waitresses in ponytails and poodle skirts.
It’s supposed to be kitschy, Steve was told, and he’ll take their word for it.
To him, it’s just another decade he wasn’t around for.
“Hey.” There’s a push on Steve’s shoulder, and he remembers a day a lifetime ago in a diner that’s probably long since toppled under the wrecking ball. “You still with me, buddy?”
“Sorry.” Steve turns on his stool so he’s angled toward Bucky. The teasing smile on Bucky’s face is something Steve hasn’t seen in a long time.
“You still have some ice crystals in your head, you had that faraway look again,” Bucky says, stealing fries off of Steve’s plate as if to prove his point.
The sheer impossibility and absurdity of the situation hits him almost immediately. That the two of them--a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent and a former brainwashed Russian sniper, World War II veterans, childhood friends, men who were born in the early years of the last century but who are barely old enough to be their own grandsons--are sitting here in 2012 is something that would’ve been beyond Steve’s wildest dreams back when he was walking around the World of Tomorrow and dreading watching his best friend go off to war. Heck, it was still beyond anything he could have imagined even after the Super-Soldier serum, and when he woke up to find the world had changed and everyone he loved was long gone.
Almost everyone, he corrects.
Steve’s laugh is sudden and ugly and probably much louder than the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents who are sitting in the back corner booth would like. He and Bucky are supposed to be blending in, not bringing attention to the fact that Captain America and the Winter Soldier are having burgers and a malt in the middle of New York City.
But the plain fact of the matter is that he doesn’t feel like Captain America right now. He’s not thinking of what he’s done, what he’s seen, and he’s not counting in his head the number of times he’s saved the planet.
“Seriously, Steve, you okay?” Bucky asks, honest concern on his face and in his voice. Even after all that's happened, he’s still watching out for little Stevie Rogers.
Right now, sitting here with Bucky in a diner that neither one of them could’ve remembered, Steve is just... Steve. That skinny kid from Brooklyn is still a big part of who he is, and there's still a thrill that hits him from the tips of his ears to the ends of his toes that Bucky Barnes chooses to spend his time with him.
“Yeah. I am.” Steve looks at Bucky. There’s a bit of ketchup on the corner of Bucky’s mouth from his burger, and Steve feels that old familiar flutter in his chest.
“You have some--” he starts to say as he looks around the diner, taking in the fellow patrons--couples and families and friends of every variety. So much has changed in sixty years, and they’re both learning about it together.
Steve grabs a napkin and swipes at Bucky’s mouth, the side of his thumb brushing against Bucky’s bottom lip.
“Ketchup,” Steve says as an answer to Bucky’s unasked question.
“You’re a pal,” Bucky answers, his voice unsteady and his eyes--his pupils--wide. Bucky’s hand slides to Steve’s thigh, reaching for Steve’s hand. Steve grips the napkin tighter in his fist, afraid of what might happen if he touches Bucky again.
Bucky doesn’t take his hand away, but he doesn’t try to open Steve’s fist, either. “What would I do without you?”
“Let’s not find out again, okay?” Steve drops the napkin (he'll pick it up later) and threads his fingers with Bucky’s.
“Agreed.”
They both know it’s tempting fate to promise such a thing, but after everything that’s happened to them, the impossible seems a lot more possible, now.