January, 2015. 

Copenhagen, Denmark. 

Boxes of all sizes wrapped in the funny pages from various newspapers with Sharpie notes saying the gift inside was mine. Three Little Mermaid themed parties in a row. A card from Dad, sometimes signed months in advance. Later, awkward birthday breakfasts. A rundown Grand Cherokee on my fifteenth birthday and a year of repairs to get it running. Passing my driving exam even though I backed into someone's garbage can while trying to do a 3-point turn. Enlisting on my eighteenth birthday, signing a stack of papers and going home to tell my dad. A birthday in the Middle East, amongst friends and fellow soldiers who sang a very crude but entertaining version of "For He's a Jolly, Good Fellow."

Then there was today. The calendar that had been tacked to the wall when we moved in said it was my birthday. We only looked at the calendar about once a week to be cross off a few days at a time, but part of having my wonderful memory was a perpetually synced internal clock.

Bucky made no indications that he knew it was my birthday. I woke up, showered, and went to work before he was even conscious. I worked a quiet shift through the breakfast rush and the lunchtime lull. Most of the day was spent preparing for the next morning's baking marathon, but I was also put to work icing little cookies with sugary flowers that looked slightly deformed once I was done with them.

The afternoon brought snow flurries. Not enough to slow anyone down, but enough to make them want to hurry home from their weekend fun and forget about running their errands. The owner decided to close up shop early and sent me home with a loaf of bread that was close to being stale and a few of the cookies I had helped mutilate.

Bucky was still at work when I unlocked the door and welcome myself home. I left the bag of carbs in the kitchen and stripped so I could take a shower. I wanted to warm up from the walk home and wash the smell of the bakery out of my hair. I gathered my towel before ducking into the bathroom and running the hot water. The shower would have been a shocker to some people, particularly Americans, but I had long ago learned to define a shower as anything with running water. The shower head stuck out of the wall in the middle of the room, three feet or so from the toilet and opposite to the sink. Using the shower meant there was a risk of soaking the entirety of the bathroom. I had to leave my clothes outside the bathroom to keep them dry.

When I left the bathroom in my towel, the mirror was fogged over, the walls were dripping with condensation, and the floor was slick with water that hadn't made it down the drain yet. With the towel wrapped around me, I left the bathroom. Bucky was lounging on the couch when I stepped into the room.

"Go to the kitchen, I need to get dressed," I said. He knew the bathroom turned into a shallow pond after showering. So, he stood up with a dramatic groan and walked into the kitchen and out of sight. I finished drying off and got dressed. Once I was in a t-shirt and leggings, I followed him to the kitchen. He was peering into the bag I had brought home, and there was a box sitting close-by on the counter.

"Boss lady give you a birthday present?" he asked without turning around. Super soldier hearing and all that.

"It was a slow afternoon so she sent me home, and I think she was trying to get rid of the cookies I helped with decorating," I explained. I stepped forward and stood in front of the box. Bucky quickly glanced my way as he took the loaf of bread out of the bag. He pulled a knife from a drawer as I was opening the box. Inside was a chocolate cupcake with a handful of berries shoved into the icing. The icing itself was haphazardly applied to the top of the cupcake, but there was a very obvious finger-sized swipe missing from the side.

I turned my head to glare at Bucky as he went to the fridge for turkey and cheese to make a sandwich. He realized what I was doing when he turned back to the bread.

"What?" he asked, his mouth full of a piece of turkey.

"Did you buy me a cupcake and dip your finger in it?" I challenged, beginning to smile but trying desperately not to laugh. He looked into the cupcake box, stuck his finger in, and swiped another bit of icing off.

"Like that, you mean?"

I ever so kindly punched him in the arm and thanked God it wasn't the metal one. He chuckled and finished piecing together his sandwich. He'd probably come back in a few hours and make himself another one; his metabolism burned through food at a rate I couldn't imagine keeping up with.

"Want me to make you one too?" Buck offered, holding up his now constructed sandwich. I quickly grabbed his wrist to keep him from moving and stole a bite. He looked horribly offended but impressed with the gall it took to do what I had done.

"Yes, yes I do," I answered. I closed the cupcake box and took it with me as I went to sit on the bed. "I'll have my sandwich then I'll eat my cupcake before you can brutalize it anymore."

I could hear him chuckle again, and I could easily picture him shaking his head even though he was around the corner. He carried our dinner to the bed and sat down with me. His shoulders slumped as he bent forward to eat. His elbows rested on his knees, metal hand holding the sandwich and the other dangling, fingers toward the floor. His anatomy still interested me in the most scientific way possible. I had seen men and women spend years adjusting to their prosthetic limbs; it took what could feel like an eternity to tweak the fit, the dimensions, the look of something so personal. I didn't want to imagine the way Hydra would have "tweaked" his arm. No anesthetic, no concern for the pain it would have caused their asset. Yet here he was, using the arm as if it was the one he was born with.

"You're very loud when you think," Bucky muttered. His eyes state fixed on his food, a soldier through and through. I still hadn't even started eating.

"I do a lot of thinking. You know that," I replied. He smiled a little and paused in his eating.

"I'd hate to see what would happen if you ever stopped thinking," he wondered. I raised one eyebrow but couldn't be sure that he saw it.

"It's not a pretty sight," I warned him. "Always happens when I'm drunk, or when something extra stressful has happened."

"This whole experience is stressful," Bucky said. It sounded as if he was trying to be light-hearted, but I could feel the undercurrent of truth. "How do you handle it?"

"Practice," I answered shortly. Bucky finished his sandwich, and I handed him mine with a promise I wouldn't miss it. Then I reached for the cupcake and explained myself. "When my mom died, I'd had months to prepare myself. I thought I could handle it, but when my dad told me she was gone I fell apart. They admitted me to the hospital because I went catatonic for a week. Eventually I was able to better prepare myself, but it's still hard sometimes. I get caught off guard or it's just such a sucker punch I can't manage."

Bucky thought it over as I broke the cupcake in half. Most of the icing almost fell off, but I maneuvered my hand to catch it on the other piece of cake. I offered it to Bucky, and he waved it off.

"I'll just eat one of those cookies. That's for you," he urged. I slowly retracted my arm and did my best to squish the pieces back together. I took a bit from it, betting the whole of a blueberry and part of a blackberry. God only knows where Denmark had found a blueberry in January, but it flooded me with memories. Summer. Pies and cobblers. Blackberries fresh from a crowded, thorny vine. Coming home after an afternoon of berry picking covered in scratches and sick to my stomach. Watermelon and hot dogs and fireworks before they scared me.

"Why'd you get this anyway?" I asked, lifting the cupcake.

"It's your birthday, isn't it?" he double-checked. I nodded and took another bite. "I didn't know what you want, but I knew you had a sweet tooth. So I went to a bakery and asked what was good for a birthday."

I smiled and shook my head. There had a great many birthday dinners in my life that I could remember with perfect accuracy. A steak dinner with my dad where the steak was overcooked and the mashed potatoes were practically raw. MREs in the desert. Ice cream sundaes with my mom.

Now, there was a cupcake brought home to and eaten in a cash-payment apartment in Copenhagen, Denmark, alongside a former Soviet assassin who had become my roommate and partner in literal crime. And it was quickly becoming one of my favorites.

*

Author's Note:

Okay, so this is more of an "author's commentary", like you'd get on a DVD. 

In addition to the master Word document I have (that is 140 pages long and up to 50,000 words) I also have a second Word file that is literally named "Bits and Pieces" because it's the chapters I thought up first and hadn't reached yet chronologically. Scenes like the New Years PTSD episode and others we haven't reached yet. There's also a Publisher file that is over two years' worth of month-by-month calendar pages with events I've thought up. 

Unfortunately, those events are usually one, telegraphic speech style sentence. 'Gail cuts her and Bucky's hair', 'Gail introduces Bucky to an iPod', 'Bucky and Gail casually discussing Oslo and potatoes'. That sort of thing. This chapter's description was 'Gail's birthday.' I had no idea where the chapter was going to go. But here we are, at the end of a chapter I'm quite happy with. 

And there is today's glimpse into the mind of a fan-fiction writer who had probably spent more time organizing and planning her writing instead of actually writing. (I.e. every writer ever). 

P.S. I know this novel has gained readers far more slowly than my Sebastian Stan anthology, but if any of you have questions about this work or the anthology, feel free to ask. I love talking about my work and would love to answer any questions you may have!