Brooklyn, New York native, Steven Grant Rogers was born July 4th, 1918, to Joseph and Sarah Rogers. Joseph Rogers was killed in action during World War I before the birth of his son, leaving Sarah Rogers to care for the most underweight punching bag in New York history.
"Oh, you're a history scholar now?"
Bucky doesn't bother to scoff, because he long ago perfected the don't-try-that-with-me-Steven Sarah Rogers side-eye. "I've been the world's leading expert on Steve Rogers since before any of these kids were born."
"Sure," Steve agrees, too easily, like he actually managed to learn somewhere in the last 75 years how not to pick a fight he won't win. Bucky doesn't buy it for a hot second. "But where's your proof there wasn't an eighty-seven pound punk out there standing up to bullies in the decades we missed."
"Where's your proof you weighed more than eighty-six on a good day?"
Oddly softened by the addition of a hundred plus pounds of muscle, Steve doesn't huff they way he would've before. Just hits Bucky with his not-so-sharp elbow. "This is supposed to be a reference document, not a tall tale."
"What is it the kids say?" Bucky asks, desert dry. He keeps his eyes on the laptop, too determined to be distracted. "Look at your life. Look at your choices."
Steve flushes pink across his cheeks, his nose. He won't admit Bucky's got a point, because there are mules less stubborn, but he tucks his fingers into the waistband of Bucky's shorts and tugs. "They weren't all so bad."
"Yes they were," Bucky says, quickly, even as he leans further into the big lug. "And I'm gonna document them all. Maybe I'll even throw in the one about Earnest Gold, in fourth grade. Pretty sure the historians will thank me."
Steve groans, and bites his shoulder.
In summer 1943, consumed with longing for his friend, Rogers agreed to an experimental treatment that would "enhance his true nature."
"I will change my name and move to Canada if you even start typing anything about growing into my dick."
Bucky stopped to consider it for at least half a second. "Empty threat. You'd never survive winter there. And the inquiring minds of today need to know the truth."
Steve hmms, thoughtfully. "That my best friend is the biggest jerk in two centuries?"
"That dick is the biggest part of your personality."
"I wanted to stand up for justice!" Steve says, laughing, pulling Bucky into a headlock. "Your revisionist history is going to upset so many youths. And Coulson."
"Coulson'll be crying by the end anyway. They'll all be crying. Goodbye, American Icon Steve Rogers, we literally hardly knew ye." Bucky can't help but grin into the inside of Steve's elbow, right before he bites it hard enough to bruise. "Keep it up and I'm posting all your ticklish spots."
Rogers formed the Howling Commandos, a group of men stupid enough to follow him across enemy lines.
"No," Steve says, quiet and too serious for the rest of the day. "A group of men brave enough to travel with me."
Steve's hand is warm on Bucky's hip, shoulder to shoulder on the sofa, his voice is so sure in his ear. Even when he didn't know who he was, there were a lot of things Bucky never questioned.
He squeezes Steven's knee and nods. "Fine, but this is the only edit you get, so enjoy it."
If his voice was a little rough, well, Steve knew better than to mention it.
After years frozen in the ice he sacrificed himself to, Steve Rogers awoke in New York in 2012, disappointed to find the future still didn't have the things promised by Howard Stark in 1943.
"No flying cars," Steve says, sadly.
"Still so much war."
"And the price of coffee!" Bucky adds, shaking his head. He's pretty sure they both wince at that one every time.
"The food is better though," Steve says, because deep in his big stupid heart he's always gotta look for the bright side.
Bucky snorts. "Unless you cook it."
Steve slaps at him with a melted plastic spatula he's been too embarrassed to replace, his face going hot. "I'm not that bad!"
There are a lot of things haven't changed much in almost 80 years, when you get right down to it. And Bucky's feelings about Steve are numbers one through nine on the list. He could say a lot of things, gets choked up sometimes thinking of all the words he wants to, but what he says instead is, "Do you smell smoke?"
In June of 2015, the FDNY were dispatched to Rogers' Brooklyn apartment for the fourth time, when Rogers started a kitchen fire while trying to make brunch.
Steve rips the battery out of the smoke detector and throws it at Bucky. "You're missing quite a bit in there, pal."
"I'm glossing over the unimportant parts," Bucky says, waving the smoke away from his face. He could open some windows to start airing the place out, but their neighbors have finally stopped calling 911 unless the hallway alarm goes off, so there's plenty of time for Steve to clean up his own mess.
"I've fought Nazis," Steve says, morally offended by the scorched pancake batter still smoking away. "I've fought Hydra, and robots, and aliens!"
Bucky shakes his head. "If only your Mama knew it'd be a box of Bisquick that did you in."
"I'll do you in." Steve knocks Bucky's feet off the coffee table on his way to the windows.
Bucky arches his eyebrows, smiles. "You promise?"
Steve sighs, pinches at the bridge of his nose like he can't imagine how he makes it through his life. Bucky can't either, most days, and his inability to make anything more complicated than a bowl of Frosted Flakes is only about half a reason. "Haven't I made enough promises for one day?" He can't help but smile.
"You're a terrible actor," Bucky says, sternly, "I'm going to find every link YouTube has available and post them."
"Or you could put on pants and I can call in an order at Tom's."
There are more places in a three block radius that deliver than Steve and Bucky have fingers between them, and at this point none of them have an employee who hasn't seen at least one of them in nothing but a pair of novelty Captain America boxers.
"Steve," he says, oh so gently. "I don't think you understand how wrong these people on the internet are."
"Right," Steve says, and steals Bucky's phone off the arm of the couch. "Maybe we could just eat the breakfast I made then."
"I'll call that bluff." Bucky has, after all, survived worse torture.
"I hate you."
Bucky puts his feet back on the coffee table. "Uh huh. I want extra bacon."
After decades of waiting, Rogers joined the nation-wide celebration of the landmark Supreme Court ruling, and wed longtime friend and lover Bucky Barnes on June 26th, 2015.
"Great," Steve says, yawning. "Now can we go to bed?"
Bucky shuts his laptop. "Lead the way, Cap."