A/N: Hi, everybody! *waves* To the, what, five of you who care, I'm still alive and got a few things sorted out in real life, so you can expect a regular updating schedule from me from now on. Kicking it off with what's effectively a very belated happy birthday for Steve. I guess it took a while to finish that cake. Enjoy!

A Slice of Cake

Conscious and updated people, both American and abroad, who watched their televisions or news feeds on smart devices might assume—and not without reason—that Captain America always did something patriotic on the Fourth of July.

(He didn't.)

They might assume that on some broadcasting channel or in some park by the Capital, they'd find the man himself in full regalia, addressing the people on the virtues of their country and urging them to strive forward into greatness and prosperity.

(Not if he could help it.)

They might assume he at least decorated something in red, white, and blue.

(Well...yes. He put a little flag outside the door of his apartment suite. Nothing too obtrusive or too apathetic—he did care about his country, after all, and worked to protect it—but he had no intention of toting the symbols and trappings of his profession on his back and around his home all day, every day.)

The reason, then, that these conscious and updated people would be so terribly wrong in their assumptions was actually quite simple. So simple, in fact, that it might never cross the minds of any but a very select few.

If he could help it, Captain America went without his cowl on the Fourth of July.

Unless the world had the misfortune of being attacked on the same day one of its countries was celebrating independence from another, Captain America was not to be found in costume, on payroll, or in any recognizable state whatsoever.

Captain America died on Independence Day. Steve Rogers lived instead.

Because Steve Rogers, of course, was separate from his persona with the vibranium shield. Steve Rogers was who he was when he wasn't pretending to be anyone else. Steve Rogers was the one often overlooked in the shadow of the Star-Spangled Man.

And he dropped the Captain America act on the fourth of July, because there are few things really more crushing than being overlooked on your birthday.

Steve's motorcycle coasted into the brick alley outside his apartment, the closed space echoing the rumble of the bike's motor. Steve cut the ignition and exhaled, trying not to breathe in until the air cleared of engine fumes. Keys went into his pocket, and he snatched up a small white grocery bag from the compartment behind the motorcycle seat.

What a day. He stood tiredly on the doorstep of the apartment, punching in the entry key by muscle memory. The fourth of July was officially as bad as weekends if one wanted to avoid crowds. He heard the electronic lock click and stepped through the door, immediately grateful for air conditioning as the door shut behind him and he left the heat outside.

Two stairs at a time, he jogged up the flight to the second level. He couldn't have gotten home soon enough. Bucky had him run out for two random lists of groceries, and very emphatically requested that he come home and drop off the goods from the first run before going off on the second. Steve was just returning now from the second round trip.

He had to admit to himself that Bucky hadn't given much of a demand. It was hardly an instruction. But with the limited communication skills of the former Winter Soldier, a list shoved into Steve's hand and a straightforward (if stuttered) "c-come home between" was such a change from Bucky's usual behavior that Steve saw no choice but to obey.

It wasn't like Steve had been inconvenienced...terribly. But the second list had taken him all the way across D.C., to a large supermarket at which he'd only been once—and once was apparently enough for Bucky to remember—with too many lines, too much space, and too much red and white and blue strung everywhere, just to buy a single block of cheese.

Steve loved Bucky. He did. He loved Bucky with all his heart and if Bucky liked the particular store's brand of cheese, then fine. He could have it, and Steve would get it for him, no questions asked. But standing in that line, riding his bike through the heat, and the whole time having that little nagging voice in his head wondering what was going on with Bucky and what he was doing and whether it'd maybe been a bad idea to leave him behind was cutting it a little close.

Steve came in sight of the suite door and took a cleansing breath to calm his nerves. Almost there, Rogers.

It was not—and he'd repeat it to himself—not the worst way he'd ever spent his birthday, to be out running errands for his best friend. After all, he was up and about, he was breathing without asthma trouble, and he was in the sun without worrying about collapsing of heat stroke.

Now, there had been the one time he spent his birthday with an ear infection. That had been terrible. Or the one time he had rheumatic fever, and he could hardly keep down water without vomiting, let along cake. Or the one time he'd had the flu—

Steve snorted at himself and put the house key into the lock.

Yep. Definitely grateful for the serum right now. Perpetual illness was one thing from his old life that he never wished back.

But there was something else about those horrible birthdays, something important. In his memories of each—Bucky was there. He'd help to care for Steve, running errands for his mother Sarah, talking to Steve, reading to him, and doing all he could to make him feel like the center of the world—because if Steve had to be sick on his birthday, Bucky would see to it that he didn't have to also be sick, hurting, and alone.

Warmth filled Steve's chest at the thought of it, and not for the first time. He leaned on the unlocked door and just let himself take the time to be grateful. All he owed to Bucky could never be repaid in things and words. Now that Bucky was here—here and healing, overcoming all that HYDRA tried to do to him—Steve had so much to be grateful for, and so much time to repay the debt in love and loyalty he'd racked up over the years.

And he would. If that infernal block of cheese was only two cents in the currency of devotion that he owed Bucky then he'd pay it, every last cent, until he could stop making it up to him and start giving him the more that he deserved.

With that, Steve opened the door and was greeted with a small clatter and the warm, sugary smell of—

—cake?!

What was the smell of fresh-baked cake (and, by logical conclusion, the fresh-baked cake) doing in his apartment?

"Sam?" Steve called.

It had to be Sam. That was the only thing that would make sense. But there was no answer.

He shut the door behind him and rounded the corner to the kitchen to find Bucky, who froze—the freeze of someone expecting punishment—and moved to hide something on the counter.

But Steve didn't see this in the large picture. He saw it in details—striking details, caught by an artist's eye. The little smudge of flour on Bucky's eyebrow, and the ones on his shirt, and the messy brown ponytail dripping strands of hair into his face. The empty bowl and whisk on the counter.

Various opened boxes and cartons, including eggs and milk and sugar, scattered about on every horizontal surface in the kitchen. The center dial on the oven, set to 350 degrees Fahrenheit—and not yet turned off. The stand-up mixer, right behind Bucky, with white flecks climbing up the blades of the blender and the rim of the bowl.

And right by Bucky's arm—as Bucky stood between it and Steve, eyes wide and painfully scrutinizing as his chest sucked in tiny, heavy breaths—a cake. A half-frosted, rich, brown, chocolate cake.

Steve felt his jaw hit the floor. Yet at the same time, the side of his brain that took control on that battlefield snapped into gear. Cap was taking charge—more or less—and assessed the situation in front of him.

First things first, Bucky was scared. He'd probably been startled when Steve came in. Trying to push the fact that he'd made a cake to the back of his mind (how? why?), Steve set the plastic bag onto the counter where Bucky could see it, careful to keep his hands visible.

"Hey, Bucky." It was his low voice, the "I come in peace" voice that he used whenever Bucky was wound up like a spring. "It's okay. You're okay. What's going on?"

Bucky stared between Steve's hands and face and slowly relaxed—first by his shoulders, then to the rest of his posture—but didn't move otherwise, still standing his guard with a wary mix of curiosity and fear.

"You made a cake?" asked Steve.

It was a stupid question. Obviously, he'd made a cake. But it gave Steve another chance to use that same low tone of voice that assured Bucky he meant no harm, and maybe to pull him back into reality.

Bucky dipped his head slightly—the childlike movement that meant he wanted something, or felt shy, or desperately wanted Steve's approval—and gave a tiny nod.

The ridiculous celebration going on in Steve's head only showed in the small smile he gave Bucky. "Can I see?"

Bucky glanced at the arm protecting his creation, but didn't more to stop him. Steve reached forward, pausing once or twice to be sure Bucky was comfortable, and slid the tray into view.

It was a cake. In fact, it was a cake with two layers, white frosting sandwiched between rich brown and spread over the top. It had obviously been done by hand; almost half the cake was not frosted, and the half that was had lines through the frosting that mimicked the width of a spatula.

Steve glanced around at the ingredients piled around the counters, realization hitting him like a thunderclap that he recognized them all. That carton of eggs, that brand of butter, that box of baking powder. He'd bought them all on the first run to the store.

A wide grin spread across Steve's face. Aw, well played, pal. Never even crossed my mind.

Bucky shifted on his feet, looking less like he expected punishment and more like a meek child hoping for approval. "Good?" he whispered.

What, good?! He made me a cake for my birthday! Steve all-out beamed and wrapped Bucky in his arms, ignoring the flour that would stick to his clothes and skin. "Yeah, Buck, real good," he praised, holding Bucky close until he could feel the warmth from his skin. "Good job. Thank you so much."

Bucky seemed surprised by the affection at first, but burrowed into his shoulder soon enough.

"You're back too soon," whispered Bucky.

"What?" asked Steve.

And then it hit him. The run for the cheese. Steve laughed aloud, causing Bucky to start in his arms.

"Whoa, Buck—sorry," he apologized quickly, unable to keep the laughter out of his voice. Bucky shrank against Steve, looking confused.

"It's okay," Steve assured him. "Aw, was that it? You wanted me distracted, so you stuck me in the one place you knew that had awful long lines. Boy, you're smart, Bucky. Sorry I rushed home. I was worried about you."

Bucky's clear, ocean-blue eyes studied Steve's face for some time. He wore the same stony, guarded expression Steve had seen in that fight on the hellicarrier, and again whenever Bucky was particularly nervous in the long weeks since then. But in time, it melted into a shadow of the cocky grin he used to have, sometime long ago (but it wasn't really that long!)—both sides of his lips twitching upward, and a "fight me" look in his eye.

"Mmn...got you," he muttered, and then hid his face in Steve's shoulder.

"Yeah, you got me," Steve grinned, enveloping his friend in a bone-crushing squeeze. "Tell ya what, pal," he said, releasing him. "You finish the cake, I'll put all this stuff away, and when you're done, I'll act surprised."

Bucky didn't roll his eyes, but a minute twitch of his jaw indicated that he noticed the problem with that idea.

Steve laughed aloud.

Of all the birthdays he could remember, this was one of the best.

Less than a quarter-hour later, Steve sat at the little dining room table, a small plate in front of him. This was it. Bucky would've called it "the moment of truth."

Steve glanced up at the brown-haired figure watching him from the other side of the table.

Well, at least he would, were he as talkative as he used to be. Steve bit back a sigh and forced himself to focus on the better parts of this situation. He was about to try the cake that Bucky made. All things considered, that sort of out-weighed the bad.

He'd cut a small wedge off of the slice, frosting and all, and took a bite. The frosting was a little thick; maybe Bucky hadn't had time to let the butter soften. The cake was dry, maybe a bit overcooked and singed on the bottom...

And considering who made it, it was absolutely perfect.

"Good?" asked Bucky, cocking his head to the side a little.

Steve swallowed the bite, and then grinned. "You bet. Thanks so much."

The brightness that sprang into Bucky's eyes right then made the bad day totally worth it.

Swallowing once more to be sure, Steve leaned forward and said conspiratorially, "But y'know, Buck, this isn't right."

Bucky cocked his head to the side and frowned, confusion delving lines into his forehead.

"S' not right," repeated Steve, and somehow managed not to grin and totally ruin it. "We can't eat the whole cake all by ourselves without inviting Sam."

Bucky's expression blanked. Then he leaped out of the chair and, before Steve could react beyond a smile, dashed into the kitchen and returned with another slice of cake.

Bucky sat down, placing the new slice at the vacant place next to him. Scooting it closer to the center, Bucky said, "For him," and looked at Steve as if for approval.

"Good idea." Steve pulled his phone from his pocket and gave Bucky a warm glance. "Let's hope Sam can make it."

There was an answer on the third ring, making the phone click when a voice came through. "Hello?"

"Hey, Sam," Steve replied, leaning back in his chair. He made sure to sound relaxed, fully aware of how many panicked phone calls Sam Wilson had to field from him the first few weeks of Bucky's recovery. As Bucky was, at the moment, calm and happily downing his second slice of cake, there was no need to give off a false alarm.

"Hey, man, happy Fourth!" replied Wilson, and it sure sounded like he was smiling. "What's up?"

"Nothing much." Steve spared a warm glance at Bucky, then asked Sam, "You doing anything today?"

"You mean for the Fourth of July?" he deadpanned. "Of course I am. I'm barbecuing and going to watch the fireworks when the sun goes down."

"Original." Steve stopped himself just short of a smirk.

"Hey, you can't beat a classic," Sam shot back, playing it off in style. "There's this great spot in the park outside of town. You can see everything."

"Sounds great," Steve admitted. He wasn't partial to fireworks, but...

"It really is. Want to come out?"

At this point, Bucky looked up, breaking into the conversation with a subdued but still very intentional look at Steve.

Steve caught the message and gave a muted smile. To be honest, he kind of felt the same about loud noises, after one too many experiences in the German trenches. "Thanks, Sam, but no thanks," he answered, his voice low. "We're celebrating my birthday at home."

Bucky didn't smile in triumph, but the muscles around his eyes relaxed just a bit, and he went back to his desert.

"What? Oh, man," exclaimed Sam, "I forgot your birthday is the fourth. Hey, you should come out and see the fireworks they're putting on for you!"

Steve had to grin. "Yeah, you're not the first one to make that joke, Wilson," he said, and rested his elbows on the table with a nostalgic smile turned on Bucky.

Bucky returned his gaze, curious, but without any recognition in his eyes.

Steve had to sigh internally. Oh, well...he supposed his friend would remember in time.

"Look, Stevie! They put on fireworks for you! The whole city's celebrating your birthday!"

"To each his own, then," Sam replied, his voice breaking into Steve's thoughts."What are you doing?"

Steve allowed himself a wide grin. "Bucky made a cake," he supplied.

Bucky munched on a bite of said cake...and then stopped, staring at the phone between him and Steve. There was dead silence on the other end.

Finally, Sam grunted, "You're pulling my leg, Rogers."

Bucky shot the phone a very heated glare that just screamed "how dare you doubt my baking skills!" Steve almost wheezed in his effort not to laugh.

"You—you know I have you on speakerphone, right?" he quizzed Sam, grinning ridiculously and trying not to look past the phone to see Bucky's face. "He heard that."

"What? You're serious?" Sam sounded equal parts incredulous and surprised.

"You're getting the Glare," Steve goaded him, sneaking a glance up.

"Well, tell him to stop!" exclaimed Sam.

Bucky wrinkled his nose at the phone and pointedly turned all attention back to his cake. Steve coughed to cover a chuckle.

"Sorry, man, that was just a bit out of the blue," Sam apologized. "Ask him where he learned to bake?"

Not expecting Bucky to answer, Steve opened his mouth to say he didn't know.

"Internet," Bucky mumbled, just loud enough for the microphone to pick it up.

Silence reigned for another second or so.

"Well, I am impressed," said Sam.

Bucky colored a bit, but looked pleased. Steve really, honestly had no idea how this day could get any better.

"Is the cake good?" asked Sam.

Jumping on the chance to brag on his friend, Steve said, "Very good. If you don't get here soon, there might not be any of it left."

Even after living under a lifetime of nothing but orders, Bucky seemed to know indirect praise when he heard it. When Steve looked up, a bright pink blush had fixated itself to Bucky's cheeks.

"Whoa, no way I'm passing up free cake!" Sam replied on cue. "I'll be there in five."

A small problem with that idea registered in Steve's mind and distracted him. "Don't you live ten minutes away?" he asked.

"For cake, I'll make it in five," retorted Sam. "See you guys in a bit." The phone clicked, and "end call" appeared on the screen.

Thanks, Sam, Steve thought, smiling at the number. That's two friends who didn't forget him, against all odds of doing so.

After a quiet moment or two, Bucky leaned forward over the table. Steve caught his eye, and Bucky said in a rushed whisper, "Happy birthday."

Steve's smile couldn't be wide enough. "Thanks, Buck."

Bucky smiled back.

A/N: Cheers for Sam Wilson! He's so fun. I hope to be able to write more with him in the future.

The short flashback of Bucky ribbing Steve about fireworks was borrowed, with permission, from theoriginalbookthief07's "Never Meant for You to Fix Yourself," one of my personal favorite stories on this site and the one that inspired me to write for this fandom in the first place. Go ahead and drop by, and leave a nice review telling her Order sent ya. If you like my work, you'll love Never Meant, and the rest of bookthief's 'Verse.

Reviews are extra dollops of frosting. Have a great one, guys.

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(Also, I'm going to keep taking pictures of my Funko! POP figures in kitchen appliances, and you cannot stop me!)