Bucky Barnes, the human equivalent of the 100 emoji.
“Well, whaddya think?” asked Bucky, injecting a little swagger into his step as he crossed the living room floor.
“Are you ever going to wear anything other than that shirt ever again?” Steve asked him, looking on from the sofa with quiet admiration.
“Nope,” replied Bucky, flopping down next to him. “It"s the nicest birthday gift anybody’s ever given me. Do you think I’ll get a special discount at restaurants?”
“Bucky, that’s… the shirt’s not even your real birthday gift,” Steve told him, through a heavy facepalm. “Did you not notice the antique writing desk with the big red bow on it in the studio?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t want to assume that was for me,” said Bucky with a shrug.
“Jerk,” said Steve, playfully elbowing him in the side.
Granted, in real people years, Bucky knew he was somewhere in his early thirties, probably - it was too difficult and too painful to figure it out for sure - but being a hundred meant something. He had, in his own way, weathered a century’s worth of experience, and emerged, if not unscathed, then at least recovering.
“So it’s a real antique, is it?” asked Bucky.
“It was quite the find,” Steve confirmed.
“Is it as old as we are?”
“Not… quite,” conceded Steve.
“So… how much would I fetch at auction?”
“You?” Steve thought it over, giving him careful examination. “You’re in near mint condition for someone your age. I’d go as far as to say you’re priceless.”
Bucky could tell he was blushing in spite of himself. “Shut up, you fucking sap,” he said, smiling against Steve’s lips. “Now when do I get my cake?”