Steven Grant Rogers had a routine when he got home. A ritual he observed religiously. Every time he entered the Brooklyn apartment he shared with his best friend, he'd place his keys in the dish he kept on the table next to the door, hang up his coat and his shield on the hooks on the wall above the table, turn on the light, and then took a deep breath, looking for the fresh scent of oil, metal, and Old Spice. As long as that combination was still present, he could let his breathe out in one long "woosh" and calling out to his roommate. His best friend. The man who meant more to him than his own life.

"Hey, Buck!" He would call and a little thrill would go through him. It was still incredible that he was here. That this was happening. It was a miracle that he'd survived being frozen and then defrosted and what had happened to Bucky… Well he didn't like to dwell on it. Whenever he did he collapsed into tears which just made Bucky feel bad. And Steve has sworn he would do everything in his power to ensure Bucky would never feel bad ever again.

So he walked down the hallway at a jaunty pace, still tingling from the knowledge that his best friend was here, now, with him and would wander from room to room until the former assassin appeared. But not this time. This time he reached the end of the hallway and found Bucky sitting on the sofa. Reading a book. Completely ignoring Steve.

None of this was…

Well it was…

This new Bucky… he was still part assassin part solider, always aware of his surroundings, always looking out for an attack. Being so engrossed in a book that he was lost to the world around him? It was so much like the old Bucky that Steve nearly choked on a sob. How many hours had they spent like this? Bucky wrapped up in a work of fiction allowing Steve the ample opportunity to study his features, or even better, sketch those same features.

It was like… well Steve didn't know what it was like, but he thanked his lucky stars even as he settled into their comfy arm chair, grabbed his sketch pad and became involved in his own fantasy world.

Hours later, as they both lost their light; they finally became aware of themselves and each other. Both looking sheepishly at the other as if caught doing something naughty. Bucky began to offer an apology, but Steve simply brushed it aside. It didn't matter to him. Well, it mattered. It made him obscenely happy, but it didn't bother him. If anything, he thought, he should be the one apologizing for filling up half a sketch book with studies of Bucky without permission.

Bucky brushed away Steve's apologizes just as quickly, just before insisting on looking through the sketches. Steve wandered into the kitchen to throw together a quick meal as he did, not wanting to see if Buck would pick up on the secret meanings held within every line of every drawing. Luckily, it had always been like this, Steve had never been able to bear watching Bucky look through his sketches, so he was able to write off his blush as just his usual behavior.

By the time he got back with a stack of French toast, sausages, and eggs Bucky had finished with the sketches and gone back to his book. Steve tried to figure out what it was by stealing a glimpse of the cover, but it was all in Russian and despite meaning to pick up the language he still only new a few words and phrases. None of which were on the cover. He tried to puzzle it out from the image, but it was just a strange looking bird on a blue cover. No help there.

Finally, he broke down and just asked. "Whatcha reading there, Buck?"

Bucky startled again, causing Steve to grin around a bite. Clearly whatever the book was, it was a good one. With a faint blush, he set the book aside and picked up his own plate. "Just a book Tasha lent me," he offered before taking a bite of French Toast bathed in powdered sugar and syrup. The man moaned around it, the sound going straight through Steve and forcing him to shift slightly in his seat.

He had to clear his throat before he could speak, and even then his "anything good?" sounded off, even to his own ears.

The other man blushed and took several large bites, stalling for some reason Steve couldn't imagime. "Uh … yeah … It's uh … The Hunger Games."

He riffled through his memory, but all he came up with was a brief footnote. Something about an actress starring in a movie by that name he thought Bucky would've gone gaga over. "I think I've heard of that. They made a movie out of it, right?" Yeah, he remembered her now. Blonde and sassy. Just Bucky's type. Maybe they'd rent the movie some night and—

"Yeah, it has a character that gets captured by their enemies before being tortured, brainwashed, and then can't remember what's real and what isn't."

Steve chokes on a bite of sausage.

"Well, no wonder you can't keep a boyfriend," Bucky mummers as he comes over to smack Steve on the back and … none of that helps anything at all.

He spluttered for several long moments before he manages to choke out "what … but … how … but … " not that that was any better than the spluttering. All it really did was prompt Bucky to laugh at him more as he settles on the arm of the chair and begins rubbing his lower back.

"Don't be mad at Tasha, Stevie," he murmured as he continues to rub. Steve opens his mouth to reply, but Bucky cut him off. "You are, though. I know you are. I can feel you getting indignant from here. But she wasn't trying to be mean, Stevie. She was trying to help. She knows I don't remember things so good, just like Peeta. So maybe she thought that I could do the thing Peeta does. In the book."

Steve looked up at him then, but Bucky was resolutely not looking back. Instead, he was focusing on some spot on the wall that is clearly fascinating. After a long moment, his cheeks tinged pink and he cleared his throat as he shifted to move away. Without thinking, Steve reached out and grabs ahold of Bucky's leg, his fingers wrapping around his thigh in a possessive fashion. "What's he do?" He asked in a husky tone, and given the position of his hand it sounded like something … well something more than Steve meant it as, that's for sure.

Bucky seemed to be thinking the same as Steve, since he broke into a wide grin that had never meant anything good. Ever. It wass the same look he had right before he set the rectory on fire back when they were eleven. "Well, Stevie, they play seven minutes in—"

Steve pushed him off the chair arm. Bucky could've caught himself- he was more like a cat than ever- but instead he allowed himself to fall to the floor and in that moment, as he's lying there on his back cackling like a loon, he looked more like that boy from Brooklyn that he has in ages.

"You're a jerk," Steve said as he stood, throwing in a little kick at Bucky as he did so.

"Sorry punk," Bucky replied as he grabbed his ankle with his metal arm. To his credit Steve didn't flinch. Bucky did, though, and that put a stop to his laughter right quick. Suddenly sober, Bucky sat up and rubbed at his face. "He uh, he'll tell Katniss something then ask real or not real."

And then Steve gets it. Why Natasha gave Bucky the book. Why Bucky asked. It's a way for the two of them to reconnect. To remind them of the good things while figuring out which bad things are just nightmares, and which are…

"Sure, Buck, whatever you want."

Bucky cleared his throat and his eyebrows knit together. "My ma, she used to make the best spice cake in all five boroughs. Real or not real?"

Without warning, Steve is back in Brooklyn, the taste of Mrs. Barnes spice cake heavy on his tongue. He has to speak around it- and the lump in his throat- but he manages to choke out "real."

A hint of a smile ghosted across Bucky's face before he got serious once more. "Promise me you'll always tell me the truth, Stevie, even if it's ugly."

"I promise."

And that was how it began, this new game of theirs. Sporadically, Bucky's eyebrows would knit together and he'd turn to Steve to ask him about something from their past. Every damn time, Steve would practically choke on the answer.

Sometimes it led to fond reminiscing:

"I used to arrange double dates for us all the time. Real or not real?"

"Real, Buck, though the girls usually both ended up on a date with you while I trailed behind."

"Didn't know a good thing when it was right in front of 'em."

Other times mutual bitching:

"We used to root for the Dodgers. Real or not real?"

"Real, Buck. They moved to LA."

"Heartless bastards with no respect for the past."

Sometimes it led to laughter:

"The first girl, outside my family, I ever said I loved was your ma. Real or not real?"

"Real, Buck. She made sure to let you down gentle."

Other times it led to them sitting in silence, trying not to cry:

"I killed Howard Stark, real or not real?"

"Bucky, it wasn't you—"

"You promised when we started this you'd always be honest."

"Real, Buck."

Sometimes it lightened the mood:

"You were the stupidest kid in all of Brooklyn, real or not real?"

"Not real, Buck. You held that title."

"You're a punk, you know that?"

Other times it brought it right down:

"You would've married Peggy Carter. Real or not real?"

"Real, Buck."

And finally, one day, it changed everything:

"You love me, real or not real?"

He'd promised. He knew he had. He told him about Stark. He told him about Peggy. But still, he couldn't … he just couldn't. His insides froze, trying to keep in the truth he'd kept hidden for so long, but when he looked at Bucky … When he looked at his best friend since forever look straight back at him with such hope in his eyes, something shattered. It didn't matter anymore. He didn't have to be afraid of prison any longer. Finally, finally, he could be free.

"Real, Buck." And to his credit, it was his voice had never sounded stronger. Steven Grant Rogers had never sounded – or felt – more like Captain American than he did in that moment.

Something shifted behind Bucky's eyes. "I don't mean just like a friend, Stevie."

It was even easier to say it the second time around. "Real, Buck."

"Not a brother, neither."

"Real, Buck."

"You don't under-"

And because he did, because he finally did, he reached for Bucky, wrapping one arm around his neck as the other gripped his waist and hauled him close. "Real, Buck," he whispered right before he closed that last distance and pressed their lips together. For the first time since he woke up from the ice, he felt complete. No, longer than that, he thought. For the first time in forever, everything was real. After a long time of memorizing the feel and taste of him, Steve pulled back and asked, "you love me. Real or not real?"

"Real, Stevie."