Archive of Our Own ^beta

"I want you to draw me like one of your French girls."

"When did you watch Titanic?" Steve barely glances up at Bucky, who's striking a ridiculous starlet type of pose against the window. He's just come out of the shower, wearing nothing but a towel slung casually around his waist. His hair's soaking wet, dripping everywhere.

He's grinning, despite how he's still spattered with colors like burn scars. Metallic black and dark and light greens streak his sopping hair and his neck, and run down his left arm to his fingertips, turning nearly all the metal from silver to gunmetal grey-green. There are patches on his torso disappearing under the starkly white towel, and more spatters on his left ankle and foot, like he's been walking in paint.

For a moment, with nothing but the snow-covered cityscape behind him, starkly visible through the perfectly clear glass, Bucky looks like he's outside in the open air. Like he's falling. Steve barely stifles his gasp before he covers it by looking back down at his drawing.

"Pepper wanted to see it when she came back from Oslo. And you did notice that I'm standin' here basically naked, right? And wet. Naked and wet."

Steve glances up again, making sure his eyes fasten on Bucky's face, not the skyline. Not the snow. "You're hard to miss, since you're in my light. And I also noticed that she got back to the tower at 3:00 AM, which means you didn't sleep last night, did you?"

Bucky gives up on the posing and just leans his back against the floor-to ceiling window, arms and ankles crossed. "Did you?"

Steve doesn't answer that, because he's a terrible liar in general and could never lie to Bucky at all. "I don't need as much sleep as you do." He tries to wipe the white color off his hands again as if it's chalk, but of course it won't disappear.

"Bullshit," Bucky snaps, and Steve doesn't have to look at him to know he's glowering. "S.O.P. with Hydra was for me to be active for 120 to around 168 hours, depending on the mission. Most of the time it was more than that—"

"Stop," Steve barks before he knows he's going to speak, then winces at how harsh he sounds. "Sorry," he says. "Just…could we not talk about Hydra? Please? Not right now." He runs his fingers though his hair, staring at the drawing he's been working on all night even though it makes his heart race to see the empty spaces between the pencil lines. It's like when he would spend hours at a time rereading the file Natasha gave him about the Winter Soldier, pulling on threads until it felt like he was the one unraveling; knowing he was destroying himself but completely unable to stop.

He hears Bucky come around to his side of the desk, then Bucky leans over his shoulder. Steve fights the childish urge to cover the drawing with his arms.

"What is that?" Bucky asks softly.

"Snow," Steve says. The word lodges in his throat, making him cough. "It was…" He swallows. "That's what I saw when the Valkyrie was going down." He's trembling. He clasps his hands on the desk to keep them still.

Bucky takes the corner of the paper between two fingers, pulls it carefully towards him. "You said you got the white for me. Because of the train." He sounds puzzled.

Without the drawing in his immediate line of sight Steve's able to wrench his eyes towards the window, then flinches when he sees the snow covering everything. It's New York, he thinks. It's New York and you're inside and warm and you're not frozen and you're not going to die. "It was. Just, not all of it. I'm sorry. I didn't—"

Bucky's incredulous snort cuts him off. "Are you apologizing for the train not being your biggest fucking trauma for once?"

Steve makes himself lean back so he can look up at Bucky's face. The black and green marring his features is actually far easier to take than the white outside. "I didn't expect it. It…feels wrong. Watching you fall was the worst thing that ever happened to me."

"Steve, when Red Skull's plane went down, you died. Or close enough to it, right? It's not like you knew you were going to wake up again." Bucky starts carding his fingers through Steve's hair. It's still partially white, especially on the back of his head, and there's almost no skin on his upper back that isn't covered in white. It soaked right through their uniforms.

"Yeah. But, I wasn't scared, Bucky," Steve says. "I can remember every second of it—the crackle of the radio and the way the yoke felt in my hands, and how Peggy sounded when she was trying so hard not to cry. But I wasn't scared. It was, it was all right. I wasn't happy or anything," he adds when Bucky's face clouds. "But I'd accepted it. I was ready."

"Ready to throw your life away," Bucky growls.

"It was my choice," Steve says. "You weren't there."

"Jesus." Bucky scrubs his face with his free hand. "You're a fucking punk, you know that?"

"The point is," Steve goes on, because the last thing he wants is to argue about a decision he made years ago that he'd make again. "That when I got hit and the…whatever this magic liquid is turned white, I was expecting to see you fall. And I did. And it was…." He has to stop just to close his eyes and breathe. "But then it changed." He shrugs. "I guess I was just blindsided."

Bucky quietly pushes the drawing back into Steve's line of sight. "So, is this what you were working on when you told me you were going to sleep?"

Steve grimaces. "I really did try to sleep. I just couldn't." He taps the picture without really looking at it. "I was thinking that setting it down on paper would get it out of my head."

"Did it?" Bucky sounds hopeful.

"Not really."

"Damn." Bucky sighs and runs his fingers through his hair, then scowls when they catch on a knot. "I gotta cut it again," he mutters.

"I could do that for you, if you wanted," Steve says.

"Thanks. But I want to look good." Bucky smirks at Steve's eye-roll, then tilts his head like he's considering something. "Wait a sec—I got an idea. Hang tight." He strides off into their bedroom.

Steve can't help admiring the lines of his back as he goes, but he returns his attention to the picture as soon as Bucky's out of sight. He studies it for a moment, then picks up his pencil and starts adding more shading to one of the huge chunks of ice. Yeah, that's better. That's exactly what it looked like right before he crashed, stark, glaring white with the faintest hint of grey—

(Watching the end coming closer and closer and closer and Captain America's going into the jaws of death after all only Bucky went first instead of following and he's not scared he's not scared he's not but Peggy's so sad and it's already so cold and God help him it's going to hurt)

—Steve hears his name but when someone touches him he knows it's Schmidt and he leaps up and spins into an attack, his left arm shoving Schmidt's hand away while Steve throws a punch with his right that's got all his skill and strength behind it.

And then he's on the floor with Bucky—God, Bucky and what did he just do?—crouched next to him and gripping Steve's wrists. He has one knee on Steve's stomach, pressing barely hard enough to hold him down.

"You with me, Steve?" Bucky looks worried, but perfectly capable of pinning Steve for real as long as he has to. "Can you tell me where you are?"

"Avengers Tower, on our floor. And it's 2015." He licks his lips. "Um, sorry."

"Don't worry about it." Bucky lets go of him and stands, then holds out his hand to help Steve to his feet. He's dressed and his hair is almost dry, which means Steve has no idea how long he was lost in the last few minutes of his life. "I was pretty sure you were gonna do that, since, y'know." He shrugs one shoulder. "Been there, done that. Got the moose hoodie. I kind of know what it looks like."

"I'm sorry," Steve says again. He scans Bucky with his eyes, but Bucky's wearing one of the sweaters his sisters kept for him, so all Steve can readily see is his neck and face. At least he doesn't look like Steve managed to hit him, though his eyes are a little wild which is entirely Steve's fault. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"No." Bucky shakes his head readily enough. "Seriously, don't worry about it. I'm just glad you came out of it all right." He hesitates. "You are all right, right?"

Steve smirks a little, though his heart's not in it. "'Kind of wish I had a moose hoodie right now."

Bucky actually grins. "Well you're in luck, pal." He scoops something off the floor and shoves it at Steve. "One freshly-laundered, boyfriend's moose hoodie. Coming right up."

"Really?" Steve holds the hoodie out, and his smile feels real for the first time in days. It doesn't even surprise him that Bucky knew he'd want something warm and cozy, and something connected to Bucky and the present. "You don't mind?"

"Would I have given it to you just now if I minded?"

"No," Steve says, because Bucky's expression makes it clear there's no other possible response. "I just—"

"—Are going to put it on already," Bucky finishes for him. He points at the middle of their living room. "Then I need you on the floor in front of the couch."

Steve pops his head through the collar, then arches his eyebrows. "You going to draw me like one of your French girls?"

"Oh, now you're interested. Figures." Bucky shakes his head in mock exasperation. "Sorry, mac. You snooze, you lose." He juts his chin at the couch. "On the floor."

Steve goes to the couch, happier for the warm familiarity of their razzing each other than he wants to admit. "Do I at least get a cushion?"

"Sure. Knock yourself out. Be right back." Bucky vanishes into their bedroom again.

Steve grabs one of the cushions and sits cross-legged. He pulls the hood up because it's cozy and he loves the antlers, then puts his hands in the hoodie's single pocket.

Bucky comes back and when he sees him like that he grins, and for a moment he's just breathtaking. "You look fantastic, sweetheart, but I need you with the hood down."

"Why?" Steve asks as he does what he's told. But he knows the answer a couple seconds later when Bucky lifts his hand to show him the wooden lice comb. Steve frowns, puzzled. "I haven't had lice since the serum."

"No fooling." Bucky sits on the couch behind Steve, swinging a leg over his head so that Steve's elbows are between Bucky's knees. "The tines are smaller than a regular comb—I want to see if it'll take the white stuff out."

"Oh." Steve managed to forget about it for two whole minutes. "I, uh, don't think it'll work."

"No harm in trying." Bucky cups the side of Steve's head, careful as if Steve's skull is porcelain. "Bend forward a little. Yeah, that's good." He lets go, and starts combing through the thick hair at the back of Steve's skull.

No one's combed Steve's hair for him since his mother died. Bucky runs his fingers through Steve's hair all the time, and Steve loves that, but this isn't the same.

This is like all the times Bucky stayed up to look after him when he was so sick he could barely move; or all the times they'd shared a bed for warmth; or all the times Bucky 'accidentally' forgot his coat at Steve's apartment for weeks on end. This is exactly the natural, everyday kindness that comes to Bucky so easily that Steve's sure Bucky has no idea how much it's always meant to him.

"You've gone quiet. That's never good," Bucky says.

Steve clears his throat. "Just thinking."

"Definitely never good. Tilt your head a little." Bucky pushes carefully against Steve's right temple and he obediently bends his head to the left. The comb slides through his hair.

"You were always so good to me," Steve says.

"Yeah, well, likewise," Bucky says. His hands keep the same, steady pace with the comb. "If you start that sacrifice crap again I swear I'm ripping your hair out."

"I'm not," Steve says. He knows when he's lost a battle, even if he's right. "I just don't know if I ever really thanked you."

"For what?" Bucky sounds honestly confused. "Being in love with you? I didn't exactly do you any favors there, Rogers." Before Steve can reply to that Bucky lets out an exasperated huff of air. "You were right—this stuff's not coming out. Damn it." He lifts the comb away.

"You don't have to stop," Steve says. "I mean, unless you want to."

Bucky starts combing his hair again.

Steve sighs, relaxing into it. He leans his head against Bucky's thigh.

"I figured you'd be dark green too, you know," Bucky says.

Steve lifts his head, looks at Bucky over his shoulder. "Green what?"

"You know—this wacky color crap that dame threw all over us. I figured it'd turn green when it hit you, not white."

"Green? You mean, like you or Bruce?" The liquid had turned to military camouflage when it hit the Hulk, then Hulk-green when he'd turned back into Bruce. Bucky's green was different shades from both of them. "Why?"

"That was the color of you ma's quilt, remember? She gave it to you every winter, and every damn winter you'd get so sick she'd ask Father Grady to come pray for you. Once to give you last rites, even. I started to hate that fucking thing, because when she pulled it out it meant you were gonna get sick again." He starts rubbing the back of Steve's neck with his right thumb, kneading out the knots in the muscles. He's still drawing the comb through Steve's hair with his left, more-or-less at random. These days he can use his left hand almost as well as his right. "So, I know why I got green, believe me, but I figured you would've, too."

"I didn't know that," Steve says, stifling the urge to apologize for getting sick so often and scaring everyone. "I liked the quilt, actually, because it was warm. But then I don't really remember much from when I was sick."

"Makes sense. You were out of your head most of the time."

They settle into a comfortable silence. Steve leans his head on Bucky's leg again, wrapping his arm around his calf like Bucky did to him so many years ago when he was the one combing through Bucky’s hair. Steve can still remember how Bucky held on to him that night, but he'd never understood the desperation in it, or the impending loss. He'd always thought his love for Bucky was one-sided; it took his best friend coming back from the dead for Steve to realize he'd been wrong. One of Steve's regrets about the past is that he was never brave enough to tell Bucky how he felt.

One of Steve's regrets. When it comes to Bucky he has so many, but he knows that if he starts listing them now he's going to end up back in the white-shrouded horror of reaching from the side of a train. "I thought you'd get red, like Natasha," he says, so he won't have to think about white.

Bucky's hands still. "For all the blood, you mean." It's not a question. He starts pulling the comb again, more slowly, making absolutely sure it won't hurt.

"None of that was your fault," Steve says, because he'll repeat it as many times as it takes for Bucky to believe it. "I meant for the Red Room and Hydra. For what they did to you."

"Oh. Yeah, I guess that'd make sense." Bucky switches hands. His metal thumb is less resilient but just as warm on the back of Steve's neck. "The light green is because of the isolation ward. When Zola got me the first time. But there's not much of that, 'cause you got me out."

"And the black?" Steve asks quietly.

"The black was for the chair," Bucky says, and there's no doubt at all which he means. "And for Grady's cassock, when he came that night we were sure you were going to die. It was a little faded, like it'd been washed too much. I remember how angry I was—you were dying, and he couldn't even be bothered to wear his good clothes."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. He's lucky I didn't punch him out."

Steve swallows. "I mean, for almost dying."

"Yeah, because you did it on purpose, jackass." Bucky snorts, but his hands stay just as careful. "And you know about the green."

"Yeah." Steve reaches up to take the hand Bucky has on his neck, just to hold it. "You don't have to be afraid for me anymore. You know that, right? I won't get sick again."

"I know," Bucky says. He puts the comb on the coffee table. "C'mere," Bucky says, and tugs on his arm.

Steve climbs onto the couch, and Bucky immediately wraps his arms around him. He tucks himself into Steve's chest the way Tony's labeled 'Buckysprawl', which is a name Steve will never admit he finds charming. He just loves that Bucky does it, and how he's comfortable with being touched most of the time. And especially that he's comfortable with affection and emotions in general. And it will never stop humbling Steve that Bucky trusts him as much as he ever did. It will never stop awing him that after everything, he's still here, holding Bucky in his arms.

"I love you," he says, because he can.

"Likewise," Bucky says. He pulls back so he can look at Steve and give him a ridiculously exaggerated leer. "Wanna draw me like one of your French girls?"

"I never had any French girls, Bucky," Steve says. "It was always just you."

"Sap," Bucky says. But it's his smile that really says everything.

But the color doesn't fade.

Well, it does, but not quickly; not enough. It's days later and Steve still dreams in white: white as the plane crashes; white as Bucky falls. He lays in bed holding Bucky so tightly it's a wonder either of them can breathe, repeating warm, safe, alive until he can finally sleep. But he still dreams of white and falling.

He's not the only one. Bucky murmurs in his sleep coaxing Steve to eat, to breathe, to stay alive. Sometimes he snarls epithets at people only he can see. Once he wakes them both up with his screams.

It's the same for all of them: Natasha pretends nothing's wrong but Steve can see her hands shaking around her third cup of coffee in an hour—her hands that are red as wounds. Thor spends most of his time with Jane, but Steve's seen him standing at the window, absently spinning Mjölnir with his mind cast somewhere over the horizon. He's stained green and gold and icy blue, and red so dark it's almost purple, and brown like dirt after rain. Tony will occasionally emerge from his workshop like a crab from its shell, sleep-shambling to the kitchen for yet more coffee and whatever he thinks passes for food. He's smeared with dark grey and orange and an oval of red on the lobe of one ear. Clint slips through the tower like a mottled ghost in a ragged kaleidoscope of bright circus colors, with a stripe of blue like war paint across his eyes. Bruce Steve sees only once, scrubbing like a surgeon at the kitchen sink. He doesn't stop until Steve physically pulls the nailbrush out of his Hulk-green fingers.

They're a mess, every one of them. And they all go to the counselors Phil recommends and Maria vets, and Steve talks to Sam so often he's offered to pay him (Sam refuses). And they all know that the guilt and misery and fear are fading along with the colors on their skin. They all know that eventually the nightmares will stop.

But it doesn't help. None of it really helps. Nothing except time.

"I'm sick of this," Bucky says. It's the evening of the fourth day after their fight with the sorceress who called herself 'Color Guard' and who Tony dubbed, 'Karma Chameleon' (Steve now gets the reference. It's a pretty good song). They're in their kitchen. Bucky's sitting at the table poking around in the box Tony made for him. The black and green Steve can see has mostly faded, though there's still a patina of color on his face and neck that makes him look washed-out and ill. Right now he resembles a scowling zombie.

"We all are," Steve says. He's leaning against the sink, too restless to sit down. He considered getting a buzz cut when he looked at himself in the mirror this morning; anything to get the white out of his hair. It'd grow back soon enough but doing that feels somehow like admitting defeat. "It's getting better though."

Bucky shrugs. "Yeah, so? It still sucks donkey balls."

Steve blinks at him over his coffee mug. "Where did that come from?"

Another shrug. "Darcy." He huffs a frustrated breath then fishes the toy necklace out of the box and twists it into a bracelet around his left wrist. Then he picks up the largest piece of sea glass Steve remembers finding on Jones Beach as a kid, examines it as he turns it in his fingers. He puts it on the table then looks at Steve. He's not scowling anymore—if anything he looks uncertain. "Hey, Steve?"

Steve raises his eyebrows as he takes a sip from his mug. "Yeah?"

Bucky bites his lip. "Would it be okay if I gave away some of the stuff you gave me?"

"Of course," Steve says immediately. "It's yours. You can do whatever you want with it." He comes over to the table, curious. "Why? Were you thinking of donating it back to the Smithsonian? I know they wanted the letters." He suppresses a pang at the idea that Bucky would want to give those away, but he tries to keep it off his face.

"What? No! Not the letters—are you nuts?" Bucky looks so horrified that Steve can't help but smile. "No, I don't mean anything like that." He picks up the glass. "I meant stuff like the sea glass. And the toy soldiers. If that's all right," he adds hastily. "I mean, I know you gave them back to me, but I gave them to you first. And, I know they mattered a lot to you, back then. So, I don't want to do anything with them that you don't want me to."

Steve smiles, remembering the tiny, skinny boy he'd been and the epic battles he and Bucky would wage with their little lead battalions in the Barnes' living room. He loved those soldiers, but he loved them a very long time ago. "I appreciate that," he says honestly. "But they're yours now. It's fine if you want to give them away. I really don't mind."

"Swell," Bucky says, smiling in relief. He takes out the two soldiers and puts them on the table. The next thing he takes out is a stubby plastic airplane with wheels and lights and what looks like holes for sound, and a tiny red button on the top. He adds it to his small collection. The last thing he takes out is a fork that's been bent into a circle.

Steve watches Bucky close and lock the box, then sit looking at the objects he chose. He runs his palms along his jeans, then comes to some kind of decision. "J.A.R.V.I.S."—he talks to the ceiling the way Steve does; neither of them can help it—"Can you get the other Avengers to meet me and Steve in the common living room in about ten minutes, please? Unless any of 'em are sleeping or something."

"Currently the only Avenger not immediately available is Dr. Banner, though given his normal habits I believe he will finish showering in approximately seven minutes."

Steve winces, remembering how Bruce would've scraped off a layer of skin if Steve hadn't stopped him. "Is he hurting himself?"

"No, Captain," J.A.R.V.I.S. says. "While he is, indeed, attempting vigorously to remove the green from his skin, he is not injured."

"Okay. Great," Steve says.

"Jeez," Bucky says. He takes a breath. "Okay, could you make it, say, half an hour then?"

"Certainly, Sergeant."

"Fantastic." He gets up from the table and picks up his box, leaving the other things behind. "I gotta get a couple things anyway."

"All right." Bucky claps his hands together, looking around the small gathering with uncharacteristic nervousness. He and Steve got to the common floor nearly twenty minutes early, Bucky carrying the cardboard box that's now on the coffee table. Bucky spent most of that time pacing. "I wanted everybody to come here because I don't know about you guys, but I've been feeling mostly like crap for the last four days and I'm fucking sick and tired of it. So I got an idea. I uh, don't know if it'll help, but it's something. And I've barely seen you guys for days anyway. So, um, thanks for coming here."

"No problem," Tony says. He's slumped in the armchair looking like he can barely keep himself upright. The red on his ear is as glaring as a stoplight next to his black hair, and the orange on his neck makes him look like he's burning. "S'not like I was doing anything productive anyways. Oh." He lifts the mug Bucky gave him in a kind of salute. "Thanks for the hot chocolate."

"Yeah," Clint agrees, before he takes a long drink of his. He's snugged next to Natasha on one end of the couch, with Thor taking up most of the rest. Thor has his hands in his lap, not really looking at anything. Clint looks exhausted, and there are red marks around his eyes like he tried to pick off the blue with his fingernails.

Natasha looks fine, at first glance. But she's clasping her mug like it's the only thing keeping her hands warm, and her long sleeves are pulled down to nearly the tips of her reddened fingers.

"I am sorry for my absence, my friends," Thor says. His smile is apologetic and sweet but doesn't touch the sadness in his eyes. "I've been troubled of late."

"Join the club," Tony snorts. He nods at the coffee table. "What's in the box, anyway?"

"You'll see," Bucky says. "But I want to do something first." He drinks from his own mug before putting it back on the table, then takes a deep breath. "Okay, this is what I was thinking. I know we've all talked the ears off the psych folks, but the only fella I really told about…" He makes a face, then gestures at his left arm which is still more grey than silver. "About this was Steve. And I thought, maybe if we all tell each other it'd help a little. 'Cause we all went through it, you know?" He shrugs. "Maybe it's dumb. But I just figured it might help."

"You all know what the green on me is," Bruce says. His smile is soft and sad and completely self-deprecating. "But if the rest of you would like to share, I'd be happy to listen."

"Sure," Clint says with a shrug of his own. He makes it sound like they're deciding what movie to watch, but Steve sees him glance down at his forearms, which are covered in swirls of so many colors he looks like a child went at him with finger paint.

Natasha quietly slides her hand into his.

"Hey, show and tell. Why not?" Tony says with the same fake casualness as Clint.

Thor really looks at them all for the first time. "If you feel it might aid us, I would also be willing to share."

"Swell," Bucky says, though his smile is still more anxious than real. He looks at Natasha, who still hasn't said anything. "Nat?"

She swallows, but then looks up at him, face as icily aloof as Steve's ever seen her, which only shows how upset she really is. She nods.

Bucky grins at her, the wealth of their shared history behind it. "All right. I'll go first. Okay, here goes." He strips off his tee-shirt, exposing the green and metallic black on his skin. "The black's for the chair—the one Hydra used on me, I mean. To wipe my memories." He gestures at his stomach. "And, uh, it hurt. A lot. And I always…I always knew that they'd taken something from me, whenever I woke up afterwards." His mouth quirks in a bitter smile. "I couldn't remember it, of course. But I knew. That was the worst part, even more than the pain. I knew they'd ripped something out of me, but I didn't know what."

"But you got it back, right?" Tony says. "Like, because of your super-duper soldier healing thing."

"Yeah." Bucky nods, and now his smile is full of teeth. "Oh, yeah. And I made 'em pay for every single second those bastards took from me."

"Cool," Clint says.

Natasha just sips her drink, but she smiles over the rim of her mug, and it's knowing.

Bucky tells them about Azzano and Father Grady, and the green quilt that Steve never knew he hated. When he's finished Bucky snatches his shirt off the table and yanks it on. "Okay, that was me. So, who's next?"

"Me. I'll do it," Steve says. He's standing as well, so he just pulls off the moose hoodie, going carefully so he won't pop the stiches even though his hands are shaking, then his tee-shirt underneath. "I think only Nat, Bruce and I got one single color," he says. He turns around, stretching out his arms so they can see the nearly solid block of white covering his back all the way to his fingers. "It's all over my back. Yes that means everywhere, Tony, before you feel the need to say anything." The jibe falls a little flat, but he still hears Tony snort so it's okay. He faces the group again. "The white is for snow—you probably guessed that—for the two times it…" He grits his teeth, pulls in air through them. "For the time in the mountains, when Bucky fell. And for when I brought down the Valkyrie in the Arctic. It, uh, can be disturbing, sometimes. All the snow in the winter." He shrugs, then puts back on his clothes, mostly so he doesn't have to look at anyone for a moment. "But I didn't know how much I…how much it still bothered me until that woman hit me with the liquid."

Bucky walks over and hugs him. "I'm right here, Stevie."

Steve takes a second to just tuck his nose against Bucky's hair and breathe.

"My go," Clint says into the silence. He lets out a short, frustrated-sounding sigh, then yanks off his own tee-shirt and drops it next to him on the couch arm. The bright mix of colors is actually quite beautiful, which only makes it worse, considering how many tragedies they must represent to him. "Most of this crap is for the circus I grew up in. Don't run away to join the circus, kids. It fucking sucks." He taps an uneven circle of dark red-brown over his heart. "This is for my brother, Barney. He went by the name 'Trickshot', and he's almost as good with the bow as me. We, uh…" He closes his eyes for a moment, then shakes his head like he's tossing the thought away. "He tried to kill me. I almost died, but the betrayal was worse than the actual injury, you know?" He shows them the inside of his right elbow before anyone can answer. It's dark, awful red from the elbow to the tips of his fingers. "This is when I found out Phil Coulson died, after the Chitauri invasion. I mean, I know he's alive now and all, but that doesn't change how I felt then."

"Of course not," Bruce says.

Everyone else nods. Natasha leans into him.

Clint gestures vaguely at his face. "The blue is for Loki," he says, then shrugs like it's not important. "You guys probably already knew that."

"I didn't," Bucky says quietly. "I know about what happened, but I didn't know about the color. Thanks for telling me, Clint."

"Thank you for telling all of us," Bruce says.

Clint gives him a small nod too, then puts his shirt back on.

"I am so sorry for how my brother injured you," Thor says.

"Thanks," Clint tells him. "But it's not your fault." He bumps Natasha with his shoulder. "Nat? You wanna go next?"

"No," she says simply, but she stands anyway. She pulls off her sweater like yanking off a bandage. Steve can't help the start of surprise, but she's wearing a sport's bra underneath so he doesn't see anything.

Steve thought she was covered entirely in monochrome red, but it isn't. It's light red where he can see it on her chest, then going darker as the color spreads down her arms until it's deep red on her hands and fingers. "This is the Red Room, where I was indoctrinated and tortured for most of my life," she says dispassionately, touching the light red with her fingertips. "And this,"—she raises her palms—"is the blood on my hands." She sits down and pulls her shirt on. Her expression doesn't change, but her eyes are wet.

Clint slings his arm around her, and Bucky goes to her and cups the side of her head, then bends down so their foreheads are almost touching. He speaks to her quietly in Russian. Natasha shakes her head and pushes him away, wiping her eyes. But she grabs his hand and holds it.

"All right, fuck it. My turn. Let's get it over with," Tony says. He lunges to his feet, then unbuttons his shirt like he's furious with it. Once it's off him he wads up the cloth and throws it like a gauntlet onto the coffee table. On his torso the grey bleeds into orange that bleeds into a black circle right in the middle of his stomach. "Yeah, so." He taps the dark grey on his collarbones. "This is the color of the casings for every missile Stark Industries ever made. So, kind of obvious symbolism there. And this…" He tugs on his reddened ear, "is for when Obadiah Stane pulled the reactor out of my chest, so he could use it for his own suit and conveniently kill me at the same time." He puts his hands on his hips and turns his head to look out the window. He stays that way as he speaks. "The guy practically raised me, even before my folks died." Tony's smirk is bloodless and nasty. "Which probably tells you everything you need to know about what an awesome judge of character I am."

"Obadiah was a sociopath," Natasha says. "They spend their entire lives lying to get what they want. There's no way you could've known who he was really."

"Yeah, well, tell that to all the people who died because he sold terrorists my weapons." Tony swallows, then looks back at them. "The orange is for all the explosions that nearly killed me or people I—people I care about. There were a lot of them, as I've been finding out to my great joy every fucking night for the past four days. I'd rather not rehash every single one, thanks." His voice is challenging, but then he looks at Bucky like he's asking for permission.

"You don't have to say anything, Tony, if you don't want to," Bucky says.

"Awesome. Okay, moving right along," Tony says on another blast of air. He points at the black circling his navel. "This is when I flew into the dimension the Chitauri came from, during the Battle of New York. Time number eleventy-billion I thought I was going to die."

"That was really brave of you, Tony," Steve says.

Tony shrugs that off exactly like Steve knew he would but hoped he wouldn't. He snatches up his shirt and tugs it on. "Hey, we all gotta lay on the barbed wire sometime, right?"

Steve flinches. "I said that before I knew you. And I never should have. I was wrong about you, and I'm sorry."

Tony actually stops, staring at him with his fingers frozen in re-buttoning his shirt. "Oh," he says. "I didn't know that. Thanks."

Steve smiles at him. "I should've told you a lot earlier. I'm sorry for that too."

"Hey, nobody's perfect," Tony says breezily. But when he finishes with his shirt and sits down, his eyes are distant. Steve wonders what he's thinking about, how much of his self-image might have been altered by one simple apology.

Thor stands with an uncharacteristic heaviness, then silently removes his flannel shirt and the light grey Henley underneath it. "The green and gold appeared for the deaths of Loki and our mother, whom I still miss and grieve for with all my heart. Loki made terrible decisions that caused you all great harm." He looks at Clint, who looks away. "But it was due to his own great pain. Loki never felt loved by our father Odin, or that he was nearly as important as I, the future king." Thor's smile is dark. "And I admit I reveled in it. Much as I loved my brother, it pleased me to know I was the favored son. But it was all of you, and the people of this city, who ultimately paid for my arrogance and selfishness, and for that I can only hope to prove myself worthy of your forgiveness."

"You were a boy, Thor," Bruce says. "And you had a bad role model. It wasn't your fault."

Now Thor's smile is mocking and bitter, and obviously meant for himself alone. "I stayed a boy far too long. This,"—he touches the ice blue—"Is the burden I carry from Jotunheim, where I went to make battle for no greater reason than my own glory. My foolishness could have cast all the realms into bitter war. This was my punishment." He puts his fingers on the brown. "I was banished to Earth by my father, to be exiled until I could prove myself worthy of the kingdom I would inherit. Mjölnir was lost to me when I fell. The night I found her the rain had turned the dirt to mud. I fought my way to her, but when I tried to lift her, I could not."

"Yeah, but you got her back," Bucky says.

Thor nods, then touches the last color, which is the deep purple-red. "Last, this is the Aether, which the Svartalf—the Dark Elves—tried to use to destroy all nine realms. It hid itself inside my beloved Jane's body for a time. I was sorely afraid I would lose her, and all the realms alongside."

Thor puts back on his tee-shirt and flannel and sits down again. Natasha lets go off Bucky's hand and takes his.

"Wow. Thank you," Bucky says soberly, looking at each of them in turn. "I know how hard that was—believe me, I know—So, thank you." He runs his fingers through his hair then leaves them linked on the back of his head, thinking. "Okay. So, um… This is probably stupid. I mean, I know it's stupid. But, I just…" He grimaces helplessly. "We've all gone through a lot of shit in the past few days, and I've been thinking of you guys, and…" He shakes his head. "Never mind. It'll be easier if I just do it."

He opens the box, then looks at all of them again before fastening on Clint. Bucky takes out the grey sweater his sisters saved after he fell and brings it to him. Bucky licks his lips with obvious nerves as he holds it out. "I know you got sweaters. There's a reason for this. So, just bear with me. Okay?"

Clint looks as confused as Steve feels, but he nods.

"Great. Thanks." Bucky turns the sweater in his hands, holding it so that he's showing the place where he got slashed in the side. The repair was excellent, but there's still a barely-noticeable seam. "This got cut when I was wearing it, going after Hydra. Tony had it fixed—thanks, Tony. She did great—but, if you look closely you can see where it got ripped, right?"

Clint nods, smiles crookedly. "You passing off damaged goods, Barnes?"

"No," Bucky says seriously. "That's what I mean, though—this was damaged. Pretty badly, even. And even though it got fixed the…it's not the same anymore. What happened to it is never going away. But…" Bucky's smile is shy. "It's still a great sweater. So." He doesn't quite shove it into Clint's chest. "It made me think of you, and. And, you know, Loki. And everything." He shrugs like it doesn't matter, but Steve can see how hard he's working to look Clint in the eyes. "So I wanted you to have it. You know, if you want."

Clint blinks at the sweater, then at Bucky, then wordlessly pulls it on. It fits in the shoulders but it's a little long in the sleeves and hem. It still looks cozy, and the style suits him. "Thanks," Clint says, sounding a little rough. Then he hugs Bucky.

"Oh. Well, no problem." Bucky says, patting Clint's back. He sounds relieved.

"Swell," Bucky says briskly once Clint lets go. He looks around the circle, rubbing his palms together. He settles on Natasha, and gives her the kind of smile that he usually reserves only for Steve. He takes the piece of drift glass out of the box. It was probably dark blue once, but was scoured by the ocean over time until the blue is lighter and the glass is no longer translucent. But Steve loved the smooth texture and the rounded edges.

Bucky kneels in front of Natasha and gently puts it in one of her red-stained hands. "Steve found this on the shore at Long Island when we were kids. I remember how curious we were about where it came from and what it was used for, and how far it'd travelled to get to our little part of the world. We figured it had to have come a long way, because it was so weathered. It must've been roughed up by the sea for a really long time, you know? It's almost nothing like what it used to be anymore. But if you really look at it—it's beautiful."

Natasha makes a tiny noise and claps her hand over her mouth. She visibly swallows but gives Bucky a small nod. She clutches the glass in her other hand.

Bucky smiles, then kisses her on the cheek and stands up. He lobs a quick grin at Steve, but the next thing he pulls out is the airplane, and he tosses it to Tony.

Tony snatches it out of the air, then stands up as Bucky comes over to him. "A toy airplane?" He looked bemsued and maybe a little hurt. "Because I'm an immature playboy, or something?" He presses the button, then frowns when nothing happens. "It's broken."

"I know it's broken." Bucky's smile is wicked. "Just like I know you're going to fix it, the same way you fix everything. And then you'll make it better, 'cause that's what you do. You take broken things and fix them, and make them better." He puts his hand on Tony's shoulder, gives him a friendly little shake. "Like me."

Tony snorts, but his eyes are on the toy cradled in his hands. "I just improved your arm, Bucky. Which I could do in my sleep. Probably have, in fact. So, not a big deal. And…" He looks up like he's forcing himself to do it. "And I break things. In case my personal abstract art didn't clue you in, there."

"Everyone does things they regret, Tony," Bruce says. "It's what you do afterwards that's important. And you've done a hell of a lot more good in the world than you've ever harmed it."

"Exactly," Bucky says, pointing at Bruce. "And you made me a new arm, Tony," he goes on quickly when Tony opens his mouth. "And you practically had me design the thing myself so it'd be what I wanted." He holds his arm out like he's displaying it. "This is mine, now. Not some machine the Red Room shoved onto my body. You gave me back my damn arm. I don't think you get how big a deal that is."

Tony gives a half-shrug with one shoulder, but he's looking at the toy again, not Bucky's eyes. "You're welcome, I guess. I mean, it wasn't—it wasn't that hard."

"I know how easy this shit is for you," Bucky says. "That's not the point. Besides, it's not the only thing, either. You gave me a home…"

"You gave all of us a home," Steve says.

"Yeah. And you're always doin' stuff for everybody. Like giving us quilts, or building an icebox from scratch, or making hot chocolate, or watching kids' movies at three in the morning."

Tony smirks, but he lifts his head. "It's called a fridge. But it's not like any of that was exactly difficult either."

"Yeah, for you." Bucky rolls his eyes. "It really never occurred to you that other people don't do that stuff? Never mind," he goes on when Tony just looks blankly at him. "That's not the point either. The point is, you do that for all of us. All the time. You make us better, just by being who you are. And you helped fix me, with the quilts and the fridge and a home and my new arm and everything. Don't you try to tell me different," Bucky snaps when Tony opens his mouth again. He taps his temple. "It's my head, not yours. And I'm saying you did."

"Just take the airplane, Tony," Clint says. "And he's right. So stop arguing."

"I was going to say 'thank you'," Tony says pointedly to all of them. He looks at Bucky. "So, yeah. Thank you." He lifts the airplane by one wing, waggling it. "This sucker will be able to go into orbit by the time I'm finished with it."

Bucky beams at him. "Can't wait."

Then there's just Bruce and Thor. Bucky looks between the two of them, then goes back to the cardboard box. What he pulls out this time is the bent fork he had in the kitchen, but he also gets a much larger ball made up entirely of cutlery that's been mashed and crumpled together like paper. He brings them both to Bruce. "Here. Take a look at this."

Bruce takes the ball and the fork-circle. He looks at them, then at Bucky. "What are these? Did you make them?"

"Nope," Bucky says happily. "The Hulk gave 'em to me."

Bruce gapes at him. "What?" He stares at the cutlery-ball in his hand like it's about to explode. "When?"

"Remember when we were fighting those giant sunflower things with the tentacles and lousy attitudes? And that building fell on us?"

"On you and the Hulk," Bruce said immediately. "I wasn't there."

Bucky blinks. "Right, yeah. Sorry. But anyway, the building fell on us. The Hulk saved my life—you knew that, right? He used his body to shield me from the debris."

Bruce gives him a slow nod. "Yeah. Tony, um. Tony told me." He lifts the ball a little. "But that doesn't explain…these."

Bucky grins. "Sure it does. The ground floor was this big, swanky restaurant, and we ended up where they keep all the forks and knives and everything for the tables. And, God, we were there for hours until the stupid sunflowers were gone and you guys could dig us out. And I…" He glances guiltily at Steve. "I might've had a couple broken ribs. And, uh, leg." He rubs the back of his head. "Legs."

Steve scrubs his face with his hand. "Yeah, I remember that. You were in a hell of a lot of pain."

"I've had worse," Bucky says. Then, at the flinch Steve can't hide, "I'm okay, Steve. It was months ago. I'm fine."

"I know," Steve says flatly. "Amazingly enough, that doesn't make it easier."

The smile Bucky gives him is wry and affectionate, before he turns back to Bruce. "Anyway, we were trapped. And I wasn't, um, happy. So, Hulk made me stuff, to help me feel better." He points at the metal in Bruce's hands. "The fork's a bracelet, because I guess he remembered from you that I wear 'em sometimes." He lifts his left hand and twists it to make the colored beads rattle. "It's too small, though. He's not good with regular-sized stuff. And we played catch with the ball for a bit."

"And you're giving them to me?"

"Just the bracelet," Bucky says. "I'm keeping the ball. But, yeah," he goes on seriously. "You always think that the Hulk only breaks things and hurts people, but he doesn't. He also saves their lives and keeps them company and tries to make them feel better when they're trapped and in a lot of pain. So I want you to have the bracelet he made me, so you can remember that he's a good guy. Just like you."

Bruce gives Bucky back the ball. He looks at the bracelet, then slides it onto his wrist. It's a little tight. "Thank you," he says quietly. He doesn't seem to know how he should feel, but maybe the tense set of his shoulders relaxes a fraction.

"You're welcome," Bucky says.

The last one left is Thor, who's been watching everything with a quiet, sad smile on his expressive face. Bucky brings him the lead soldiers.

"I wish I could do something to bring your brother and mother back, or make losing them not hurt so much," he says. "But I can't. So I wanted to give you these. Steve and I played with them when we were kids. And I thought, maybe it'd help you think of all the times you played with Loki when you two were kids. Before everything that happened."

Thor holds out his hand and Bucky puts the soldiers into his palm. "Thank you," he says roughly. He stands so he can pull Bucky into a hug, still holding the soldiers in one fist. "I am honored that you would give me something so precious."

"You're welcome," Bucky says, a little muffled as he thumps Thor's back. "But it's getting kinda' hard to breathe here, big guy."

Thor lets him go.

Bucky gives his head a swift shake, then Thor a quick smile. "Well, that's it," he says to the rest of the room, looking a little nervous again. He picks up his mug and drains it, though the contents have to be long cold by now. "Thanks, guys. For letting me do that."

"What about Steve?" Tony says. He's flipping the toy airplane in his hand. "Tall, light and handsome doesn't get anything?"

Steve hadn't thought about it. It'd never even occurred to him that Bucky would include him with the others when it came to the small gifts. He doesn’t need anything. He thinks of Bucky combing his hair; he gets special things from Bucky all the time.

At Tony's raised eyebrow he tilts his head in a kind of shrug. "I have Bucky. I don't need anything else."

Bucky's grin is practically incandescent, but Tony just stares at him. "How can you say stuff like that without sounding corny as hell?"

"It's his special mutant power," Clint says. "Sincerity." He stands and stretches, then tugs down the sleeves of his sweater. "Thanks, Bucky," he says to him again.

"Anytime."

Natasha stands as well. She gives Clint a sweet, lingering kiss, then says something to Bucky in Russian that makes Clint laugh, and then strides into the kitchen.

Clint shrugs at Bucky's mild glare, smiling innocently. "You heard her."

"She's your girlfriend."

"Exactly."

"What was that about?" Bruce asks.

"She wants my help with something. Because apparently Clint sucks at it," Bucky says, narrowing his eyes at Clint again. Clint just blinks back at him. Steve wonders if Natasha didn't say what she wanted help with, or if he's being vague on purpose.

"My money's on getting down the alcohol," Tony says. "Well, this has been enlightening and terrifyingly emotional, but I've got a toy that needs to break atmosphere, so I'm going. Later, taters." He vanishes into the elevator, not quite at a run.

"What about you guys?" Clint asks Steve, Bruce and Thor.

"I shall return to my Lady Jane, and show her Bucky's gift," Thor says. "Thank you, ShieldBrother," he says to him.

"You're welcome, Thor Odinson," Bucky says just as formally.

"Are you helping me or not?" Natasha calls from the kitchen.

"Oops. The lady calls, fellas," Bucky says. "Later, taters."

"Have fun," Clint says sweetly.

Bucky gives him the finger over his shoulder.

"Bucky?" Bruce says.

Bucky stops, turns around. "Yeah?"

"Thank you."

Bucky gives him a nod before he goes into the kitchen.

"Well, what about you two?" Clint asks Steve and Bruce. He tilts his head at the TV. "We could watch a movie."

Steve would rather go back to his floor. He's feeling wrung out and wouldn't mind trying to take a nap. But it's obvious Clint doesn't want to be alone, and Steve doesn't have the heart to abandon him.

So, "Sure," he says, and sits on the couch. "What did you have in mind?"

"Something funny," Bruce says, settling deeper into the armchair. He hands the fork circle to Steve. "Could you make that a little larger? I can probably do it, but it'll be easier for you."

"My pleasure," Steve says. He pulls the two ends of the bracelet so that the fork and the tip of the handle aren't touching. When he gives it back to Bruce it fits on his wrist easily.

"Nice. You look emo," Clint comments. He thumps down on the couch right next to Steve, despite all the free space, and turns on the TV with the remote. "J.A.R.V.I.S., find us something funny that doesn't have a circus, snow, the military or giant monsters in it."

"May I recommend Sesame Street, Agent Barton?"

"Funny, J. Really funny," Clint grouses.

"I don't know," Steve says in mock-seriousness. "Big Bird can be pretty tragic."

Steve wakes up alone on the couch, to the sound of music coming from the kitchen and a delicious smell of something sweet.

He's pretty sure he fell asleep during the opening credits, so he has no idea what they actually watched, other than it not being Sesame Street. The movie is obviously over, given that the screen's off and Clint and Bruce are gone, along with all the leftover mugs. It looks like early evening.

He gets up yawning and stretching, then wanders into the kitchen to see what's going on. The counters are covered with baking accoutrements and empty bowls and a bit of spilled flour, and what must be at least 100 chocolate-chip cookies cooling on a phalanx of baking racks.

Bucky and Natasha are dancing to the song on the radio, which sounds almost but not quite like the music Steve remembers. Bucky's twirling Natasha effortlessly around the large kitchen island—or rather, Natasha is twirling herself effortlessly while Bucky helps—and they look light and graceful and a little bit silly, dancing in the middle of the kitchen.

"Hey, Steve!" Bucky greets him. "Natasha decided we were making cookies," he adds, as if Steve had somehow missed that with all the cookies everywhere.

Natasha finishes her last spin and she and Bucky collide dramatically, then start doing something like a waltz with more complicated foot movements. They look wonderful together, moving in perfect, automatic synchronicity. Steve can't help thinking of how well they must have worked together as assassins, but he's glad that Bucky was able to find some happiness during the long, cold decades as the Winter Soldier. Bucky and Natasha both.

And they're really fantastic to watch.

The timer goes off, and Bucky expertly twirls Natasha towards Steve and bounds off to pull the last batch of cookies out of the oven. Steve was never much of a dancer, but Natasha's so good at it that she coaxes him into an only slightly-awkward, slow waltz, and he's actually able to get her around the island twice without missing a step or crushing her feet. All the same, he's happy when the song changes and he can stop.

"You're a better dancer than I thought you'd be." Natasha takes a cookie from one of the racks and hands it to Steve, then grabs another one for herself.

Steve shrugs, sure he's blushing. "Well the serum had to be good for something."

"Yes. Thank goodness it was good for something," Natasha agrees, making her eyes big and blinking guilelessly as she chews.

"Sure as hell didn't improve his looks any," Bucky says. He's using his left hand to put the cookies on the baking rack, because it only registers pain if it's damaged. "There." He sighs like he's just come back from a mission. "That's it." He starts washing his hands, glancing dolefully at the counters. "Now we just have to clean everything." He sighs again, heartfelt. "Maybe we'll be lucky and someone will try to destroy the world first."

Natasha rolls her eyes. "Baby."

"I'll help," Steve says.

"Yeah?" Bucky looks thrilled, but then shakes his head. "You want to help clean all this stuff up. You're some kinda masochist, I swear."

"Or you could just say, 'thank you, Steve. How sweet of your to offer'," Natasha says. She takes a plate from the cupboard and artfully piles it with about two dozen cookies, then gives Steve a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you, Steve, how sweet of you to offer."

Steve laughs. "You're welcome."

"Hey, where's my kiss? And where are you going with those? Are you bringing those to Clint? He didn't even help!" Bucky spreads his arms at the kitchen in general. "Aren't you staying to clean this up?"

Natasha takes another cookie—off a rack, not her plate—bites it, then goes and gives Bucky a loud, wet smack on his cheek. "There’s your kiss. Yes, I’m bringing these to Clint. And no, I'm' not helping. You have Steve." She gives him a dazzling smile and saunters off, leaving a big streak of chocolate on Bucky's face.

"Don't think I didn't notice you got chocolate on me, bitch!" Bucky yells gleefully after her, then laughs at whatever she yells back in Russian. Bucky swipes his cheek, then grimaces at his fingers. "She did get chocolate on me. She's evil."

"I'm kind of surprised you hadn't noticed that already." Steve licks his thumb and cleans off the rest of the chocolate, ignoring Bucky's squirming protest of how disgusting that is. "So, what do you want me to do?" he asks afterwards, looking around. His heart sinks a bit—the kitchen really is an astonishing mess, considering all they did was make cookies. "Maybe we really will get attacked, if we wait long enough."

"Baby," Bucky says. "How about you load the dishwasher, and I'll wash everything that doesn't fit?"

"Sounds good." Steve smiles to himself. Bucky remembered that he always hated washing the dishes. It's one of the many, many small, everyday moments that he thought Bucky had lost forever and was so damn grateful when he got them back.

He's still grateful, every day. Just because Bucky's there to share them with him.

Steve leaves the bowls he's stacking and instead goes to where Bucky's at the sink, adding soap to the running water as if it requires all his considerable focus.

"You're just trying to get out of helping me, aren't you?" Bucky says when Steve slides his arms around him and hooks his chin over Bucky's shoulder.

"Yep," Steve says. "This is totally me trying to get out of helping you."

"Jackass."

"Jerk."

"Punk." Bucky flicks Steve with water before turning the tap off. "Seriously, are you gonna do anything? Or just hang on to me like a monkey?"

"Haven't decided yet. I kind of like it here." Steve licks a last trace of cookie from Bucky's cheek.

Bucky wipes it furiously with his wet fingers. "God, you are disgusting."

"You love it."

"Not when you're slobbering all over me."

"Yes you do."

Bucky rolls his eyes, but Steve can see the blush creeping up his face. "You're as evil as Nat."

"You love me anyway."

Bucky turns his head just enough for Steve to see his smile. "Yeah, I do." He puts his arms over Steve's.

"'You happy, Buck?" Steve asks, even though he's sure of the answer. Pretty sure of the answer. "I mean, you're glad you're here, right? Things are good?"

"Yeah. Of course I am." Bucky gently knocks his temple against Steve's. "Of course I'm glad I'm here. You're here, aren't you? So, I'm home."

END