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Now
The door jingles overhead, and Frankie looks over from where he’s idly dusting the top of the bookcases. He hadn’t been expecting another customer after the evening rush, but he supposes one or two stragglers isn’t necessarily rare. Especially around the holidays.
“We’re closing soon, fair warning,” he calls, and the man who entered looks over. His eyes are dark underneath the cap that’s pulled down over his face, and Frankie immediately clocks the tense line of his shoulder. A vet, probably. Has that look about him.
“I know,” the man calls out. “I’m not really here to browse.”
Frankie’s eyebrows shoot up, and he slips behind the counter, setting the Lysol bottle and rag down next to him. The man walks over, hands buried in his pockets.
“Yeah? What can I do for you?”
The man grimaces, pulling his hand out of his pocket and holding out his phone. Frankie reels back a little, lowering his glasses to squint at the screen.
“That piece of art,” the man says. “You got it?”
Frankie’s eyebrows shoot up. Central Park in winter sprawls out on the canvas on the screen. Wisps of snow swirl in the foreground, perspective and texture bringing the viewer directly into the painting. Frankie recognizes it immediately. It’s a goddamn Steve Rogers piece. One of the few that he’d sold around back before the war; before he was Captain America. They’re rare and goddamn expensive to boot.
“Not anymore,” Frankie says, pushing his glasses back up. “Sold it a while back.”
“Damnit,” the man murmurs. “You know who you sold it to?”
Frankie clicks his tongue. “Even if I did, I can’t say. Confidentiality rules, pal. I’m sorry.” And he really is sorry. Steve Rogers’ pieces are goddamn beauties. Would make for perfect gifts if you can afford to get your hands on one.
“It’s fine,” the man says. “Thanks anyway.” And then he’s turning to leave, tucking the phone back in his pocket, the tension in him bleeding into dejection. Frankie watches him go, reaching for the Lysol again.
“Shame,” he mutters.
Then
Bucky knocks at the door to the Rogers’ apartment, then leans against the door jamb to wait. He’s still shivering a little from his walk over from his own place, and he pulls his coat tighter over himself, wishing he’d listened to his ma and put on a scarf before he left.
Steve opens the door a moment later. “Oh shit,” he says. Bucky appraises him, eyebrows raised. Takes in the wrinkled shirt he’s wearing, half buttoned and untucked over baggy slacks.
“Did you forget about today?” he asks, following Steve into his apartment.
It’s eerily quiet, and Bucky’s stomach twists as it often does these days when he comes by the Rogers’. The absence of Sarah sits heavy in the air, anticipation twisting with preconceived grief, curling around their ankles and licking at their heels. She’s gotten worse, just in the last couple of weeks, and the news lays sour on the block. Bucky hopes she at least makes it through the holidays, as awful as the thought is.
“Things are busy,” Steve says, and Bucky clenches his jaw. Steve looks goddamn exhausted. Worn and tired in a completely different way than he usually is. “I’ve been busy.”
“I know.” Bucky follows him to his bedroom, watches as he strips out of his shirt and pads to his closet, rooting through for something warmer. Something appropriate for Rockefeller Center. It’s been a tradition as long as their families have known each other, to go ice skating on the grand rink around Christmas, and the addition of the huge tree back in ‘31 had only sweetened the deal. Steve had agreed to come this year, even if Sarah can’t.
“She wants me to go,” he had said, shoulders hunched in that way they always were when he got back from a visit. “Told me she’d cuff me up the side of the head if I missed it.”
Steve pulls out a green sweater and tugs it over his head, reaching up to pat the static it leaves in his hair. Bucky quirks a small smile as he perches on his bed, watching him change into a nicer fitting pair of slacks. He’s still got that little cowlick on the back of his head-- the one that never flattens down. If Bucky squints and tilts his head, he can almost see the kid he’d met in the schoolyard all those years ago. But then again, he can’t. That kid seems long gone. Weathered by a life that seems to want to squash him down without refuge. The smile slips off of his face.
“I officially got Christmas off,” Steve says, sitting next to Bucky to pull on his socks. “Eve and Day.”
“Mr. O’Malley came through?” And Bucky’s honestly relieved. It seemed an honest fight for Steve to get the holidays off, and Bucky thinks it really would have been an added insult to injury if he had to work.
“Yeah,” Steve says, bending over and digging under his bed for a pair of shoes. “Even sent me with a couple cans of peaches from the store, so maybe I can actually show up with something to offer this year.”
“You know my ma don’t care,” Bucky says. “She likes making enough to feed a small army.”
“I know, I’d still feel bad,” Steve says, standing. Bucky stands as well and impulsively reaches out to try to smooth down Steve’s cowlick. He barely seems to notice. It doesn’t flatten. “Might try to find my ma’s old cobbler recipe. I think it’s pretty simple. Just butter and flour and sugar and such.”
“Sounds simple,” Bucky agrees, following Steve out of his bedroom, doubling back to grab his gloves and hat. Kid always forgets them. He calls over his shoulder, “I’m sure she’ll appreciate it and all.”
Steve is in the kitchen when Bucky emerges, chugging down a glass of water. He hums his thanks when Bucky tosses his hat and gloves over.
“There’s an extra scarf hanging by the door,” he says, because he’s worse than Bucky’s own goddamn mother sometimes.
“Thanks,” Bucky grins, and goes to grab the scarf while Steve gears up himself. His gaze wanders towards the windows, frowning when he realizes-- “Where’s the painting?”
“What?” Steve follows his gaze. “Oh. I sold it.”
“You what?” Bucky’s head whips around to look at him, heart slamming in his chest, because what? No, Steve couldn’t have sold that piece. It was his fucking favorite. This brilliant landscape of Central Park during the city’s first snowfall a couple years back. A slice of life before it could spiral even further downhill, with children skating on duck ponds and ladies in big hats mingling on benches. Bucky swears he can smell roasted nuts through the canvas. And now the space where it used to hang proudly between the windows-- tacked up by Sarah herself after Steve had finished-- is empty. Bare. Another lively presence in the house stripped away.
Steve isn’t looking at him. “I sold it,” he says again.
“I heard you,” Bucky says, briskly walking towards the windows. His hand comes to rest on the wall, like he can pull the painting from the plaster. “Why? Steve, you love that--”
“--I had to,” Steve cuts him off, and he sounds tense now. Bucky’s jaw shifts, then clenches.
“You had to,” he echoes.
“Look, ma needs this new type of medicine now. Something fancy for her lungs that insurance don’t cover and my paycheck wouldn’t cut and--”
“Steve,” And Bucky is looking at him again now, horrified. Because of fucking course Steve would take a chunk of his soul and sell it to try to help his ma. “Why didn’t you say you were struggling like that, we coulda--”
“Bucky, don’t,” Steve snaps. “Don’t.”
Bucky’s mouth clamps shut and they glare at each other for a moment, chests heaving in tandem. The air feels charged now. Too full of empty space. A chasm between them. And maybe Bucky really hasn’t been paying attention, because Steve looks fucking heartbroken. Eyes tight and distant. Gone. When had he gone away? Bucky can’t remember.
When was the last time he was here?
“Fine,” Bucky says, stepping away from the wall. “Come on, let’s go. The others are waiting.”
Now
“I need a favor.”
Phone static crackles through the speaker for a moment, and Bucky can almost picture Natasha’s face. Surprised, and a little amused. The smirk usually poised on her lips tilting down just a bit.
“Happy holidays to you, too, James,” she says, and Bucky rolls his eyes.
“Yeah, yeah. You got the fruitcake we sent along, right?” he says, wedging his phone between his shoulder and ear as he unlocks his and Steve’s brownstone door. Steve’s dog, Rothko, greets him at the door, and Bucky bends down to give him hello scratches.
“Yes, and your Christmas card. Very cute, by the way. You should get Steve to wear those little reindeer antlers more often.”
Bucky laughs, grabbing his phone again and plopping onto his rear, letting Rothko sit between his legs while he pet him.
“It was a battle enough getting him to agree to one picture,” he says. “I doubt he’d be game for more.”
Natasha hums. “What’s the favor you need?”
“Right, can you help me track down a painting?”
There’s a pause on the other end and Bucky holds his breath, glancing behind him again to make sure that Steve isn’t home. His bike isn’t in his parking space, and his keys aren’t hanging on the hook. Plus he can’t hear him up the stairs. He’s safe.
“Possibly,” Natasha says. “Do I get more context? Details?”
“Yeah, it’s one of Steve’s old paintings. Goddamn masterpiece. Did it way back before the war and sold it for money the year his ma died. I-- look, I know it’s out there. Tracked it as far as some antique store in town, but I lost the trail there. I figured you might be able to help me.”
“Jesus,” Natasha murmurs. “I can try, but I’m not going to make any promises.” Another pause. “He sold it the year his mother died?”
“He was desperate,” Bucky says softly, and his chest aches for a moment at the memory. Steve grasping at straws. Anything he could do to give her another chance. Another breath.
“Right.” It’s quiet for another moment, then: “Do you have a picture?”
Bucky smiles, relieved. “I’m sending it right now.”
Then
“Steve, can you lace up my ice skates for me?”
Bucky watches as Becca plops down on a bench, the hole on the knee of her tights stretching out, revealing skin. He has an urge to patch it up, right then and there, because it’s really cold outside, and he doesn’t want her catching some sickness. But Becca’s still in her rebellious phase, and she’d insisted it was okay, and the tights were just fine for their outing.
“Sure thing,” Steve says, kneeling in front of her and lacing up the skates with practiced hands.
He’d been quiet the whole way there, curled in on himself in a way that’s entirely too common these days. Bucky can’t help but kick himself. He should have kept his damn mouth shut on the money; it ain’t his place. He knows that, but part of him can’t help but be pissed, because if Steve is at the point of selling his fucking art like that, things are bad. He wishes Steve would just let them help, just once. He wishes Sarah weren’t getting worse. He wishes things could slow down, because he doesn’t think Steve’s breathed properly in years. Not since his father’s death back in ‘27.
Bucky tilts his head to look up at the tree. The brilliant lights twining around the huge branches. The ornaments that may as well be basketballs by their size. It makes him feel small in its beauty, and when Steve steps up next to him, ice skates draped over his shoulder by the laces, he feels himself shrink even further. The tree is glowing, but Steve is radiant beneath its lights.
“I’m sorry,” Steve says, and Bucky elbows him. Steve nudges him back.
“Ain’t no sorry,” Bucky says lightly, then lowers his voice. “But I am, too.”
Now
“Tony has it.”
Bucky slows to a stop and raises his eyebrows, jogging in place to keep momentum as he moves out of the way of pedestrians. It’s beginning to snow now in Prospect Park, and he wonders briefly if they’ll have a white Christmas that year.
“Tony has what?”
“The painting-- Steve’s painting. The one of Central Park? He has it, or-- well, he had it in his modern art collection before he donated the entire thing to the Boy Scouts.”
Bucky stops jogging, and moves over to a bench, sitting heavily and pulling off his cap. He brushes some sweaty hair off his forehead, and replaces the cap, letting Natasha’s words sink in.
“So, the Boy Scouts have it, then,” Bucky says, and he can’t help but wonder what the hell Tony was doing with Steve’s art. But then again, it must have been something of a bragging point, having a Steve Rogers original. The man at the antique shop had seemed fairly impressed, even if he hadn’t outright said anything either way.
“Yes,” Natasha says, and there’s some movement in the background. Typing, then a pause. “Seems like it’s being displayed at the headquarters in Dallas.”
“Texas?”
“Do you know another Dallas out there?”
Bucky laughs, and kicks half a sandwich that’s been discarded on the ground over to a pigeon. Three more seem to appear out of thin air to consume it.
“Fair point,” he says. “You up for a day trip?”
Then
Bucky hits the ice with a loud thump, glaring when Steve skates past him laughing.
“Jesus, Barnes, you still got two left feet?” he calls, gliding in a semicircle, and looping back around to Bucky. He’s loosened up in the last half-hour, worries seemingly melting away as soon as they were on the rink. He’s good at it-- skating. Always has been. Which figures, because it’s the one thing Bucky can’t fucking do for the life of him.
“Shut up,” Bucky grumbles, reaching out his hands so Steve can lever him to his feet. Throngs of people skate around them, and Bucky lets his eyes unfocus for a moment, watching the world blur out and morph into something else. It looks like a painting, the way the people stand out against their surroundings. Smudged figures against a backdrop of beauty. The tree looms overhead, an ever present figure overlooking a scene of pure joy. The white of the ice is familiar; the beauty of Winter popping out.
Bucky thinks of Steve’s painting. Bucky thinks of Central Park-- the simplicity of humans as they sink into the world around them. How the real thing is so similar to how Steve depicted it, even if it ain’t the right place.
His stomach hurts.
“You alright?” Steve asks, and Bucky blinks back into the moment. He looks at Steve, then down at their mittened hands, still holding onto one another. His heart flips, and he lets go. They’re well past the innocent age where they could get away with that.
“Yeah, just thinking is all.”
“Right, yeah. Shoulda figured-- you look constipated. About ready for steam to blow out of your ears,” Steve says, starting to skate backwards, feet drifting in long ovals to propel him.
Bucky rolls his eyes and starts skating after him, much less smoothly.
“Yeah, whatever. Are you coming to dinner after this?”
Steve shrugs. “I can,” he says, noncommittally.
“What, you got other plans?” Bucky skates up next to him, and Steve turns to face forward so they’re moving side by side.
“No, but I was thinking I’d maybe go see my ma. Wanna tell her about tonight, since she couldn’t come and all.”
Bucky grimaces. He should have figured.
“Could always come back over afterwards,” he says softly. “We’ll save you a plate.” Because Steve hasn’t been eating enough lately, what with all their money going towards Sarah’s treatment.
Steve flashes him a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I might be there late.”
Bucky reaches out, and squeezes his hand. Short. Sweet.
“I’ll stay up.”
Now
They arrive in Dallas at lunchtime, having taken one of Tony’s jets to zip them down there quickly. Pepper had called ahead for them, promising that it’d be easiest if she negotiated the dirty bits if they went to retrieve it. Which was really no issue. Bucky had been prepared to fight tooth and nail for the painting if that’s what it came to.
”Call it a Christmas Present,” she’d said, and Bucky had laughed.
”I owe you a big one,” he’d said back.
The Boy Scouts HQ is technically located in Irving, Texas, which is just northwest of Dallas, and Bucky and Nat take a cab out. There’s a strange sense of nostalgia sitting in Bucky’s chest as they enter the building; he’d been a boy scout once, a lifetime ago. Another confined sense of masculinity he’d had to mold himself into, only slightly less intense than the Y.
“You know, I used to be a scout,” Bucky murmurs to Natasha as they wait in line for the front desk.
Natasha raises her eyebrows. “Oh yeah? You seem the type, honestly.”
Bucky snorts. “Yeah, people call Steve the goody-two-shoes-boy-scout, but nah. It was me. Probably gave me a hundred heart attacks just in the first decade we knew each other.”
“Yeah, I don’t really understand that interpretation,” Natasha admits. “He’s a bit of a troublemaker.”
“A bit?” Bucky echoes. “Kid is a goddamn reckless idiot.”
Natasha laughs. “That too.”
The man at the front desk looks harried when they get to the front of the line, and Bucky almost feels bad for bothering him. He recognizes them right away, though, and immediately reaches for the phone on his desk.
“You’re here for that painting, right?” he asks, frantically dialing a number. So much for formalities.
“Uh, yeah. Yes, sir,” Bucky says, exchanging a look with Natasha.
“Uh huh,” the man says-- Charles, according to his nametag. He speaks into the phone: “Yeah, I got Sergeant Barnes and Agent Romanoff down here. You said to give you a call when they arrived-- yes, sir. Yes. I’ll send them up right now.” He hangs up. “Go on ahead to the elevators to your left. Fourth floor. Our curator-- Doctor Brown-- will meet you there.”
“Thank you,” Natasha says, then grabs Bucky’s arm to drag him towards the elevators.
Doctor Brown looks considerably more relaxed when they meet him on the fourth floor, and Bucky shakes his hand when offered.
“Hi, it’s good to meet you, Sergeant. Agent.” He nods towards Natasha, who shakes his hand as well.
“It’s good to meet you, too,” Bucky says, following where he’s guiding them down a pristine hallway. “I really appreciate you doing this for me.”
“It’s really no issue,” Brown says, rounding a corner, and nodding to an intern who passes. Bucky smiles a little awkwardly at the guy, who looks genuinely shocked to see him and Natasha there. “Once I heard who was asking, it didn’t take a genius to figure out who it’s actually for.”
“Yeah.” They enter a smaller room, filled with haphazardly sorted boxes and picture frames stacked at random. Bucky’s heart flips; the painting is somewhere in this room, he assumes. “I think he’ll be real… excited to reunite with it.”
“I’ll bet,” Brown says, crossing to a desk covered in papers. There’s a large brown paper parcel on top, and he lifts it gingerly. On the front, Rogers-- Central Park is scrawled in black sharpie. “Here you are.” Bucky takes it from him, and even though Bucky can’t see the painting, the twinge of nostalgia that flows through him is suffocating. He sways a little at the familiar weight, and Natasha places a hand on his elbow. “Mrs. Potts already sorted out logistics, so you can go ahead and take that. It’s wrapped for protection, but if you wanna go ahead and take a peek to make sure it’s the right thing, you can. Just be careful not to rip the paper when you take off the tape.”
Bucky glances at him, and nods, words lost on his tongue as he steps closer to the desk, placing the piece back down and carefully unsticking the small piece of tape keeping it secure in the paper. He’s gentle as he unravels the piece, and his breath catches in his chest as it unfurls before his eyes. The paint is slightly cracked with time--weathered by the natural progression of the piece, but it’s still as beautiful as the day Steve had finished it. As the day Sarah had hung it proudly in their humble living room. Right between those two windows that overlooked their little corner of the world.
It’s like looking into a window of the past as Bucky takes it in, and he has to force himself to cover it up again before he gets lost in the textures swirls of paint. His hands are shaking as he replaces the tape.
“It’s correct,” he croaks, and doesn’t meet Brown’s eyes. He feels far too stripped down. “Thank you.”
“Hey, where were you?” Steve asks later when Bucky gets home, the painting secure in the garage where Steve probably won’t stumble upon it at random.
“Oh, you know,” Bucky says, closing the door behind him. “Christmas shopping.”
Then
Bucky can see light filtering underneath the door this time when he knocks on the Rogers’ door. The scarf he’d borrowed the night they went to Rockefeller is secure in his other hand, freshly washed upon his ma’s insistence.
Despite the light, there still isn’t an answer, even when Bucky knocks again, and he frowns. A curl of worry unfolds in his gut, and he presses his ear to the door. Maybe Steve is asleep.
But then he hears it-- the soft, familiar sound of Steve crying. Quiet, because he never cries loud. Harsh in that way that means the sobs want to rip out of his chest, but he isn’t letting them.
“Steve?” Bucky calls through the door, reaching down to try the knob. Unlocked. “I’m coming in.”
Steve is knelt by the wall between the windows when Bucky comes in, face buried in his hands. Bucky’s heart clenches for a panicked moment, and he wonders if the worst has happened. If Sarah is--
No, he’d know. He’d have heard, for sure.
“Steve,” Bucky breathes, hanging the scarf on its hook and swiftly crossing over to him. Steve startles a little, and looks at him. His eyes are red and puffy, lips pursed against a fresh wave of tears that want to wash over him. “Oh, Stevie.”
“Bucky, what--”
“Your scarf,” Bucky explains. “I forgot to give it back. What’s going on? Is your ma--”
“She’s fine,” Steve says, then lets out a sob, clapping a hand over his mouth. Bucky feels lightheaded, worry and empathy battling each other as he shifts to sit cross legged next to Steve. Close enough to touch, but not crowding him. “She’s alive, anyhow.”
So, not fine.
“What’s going on?” Bucky asks again.
Steve shrugs, looking up at where the painting used to be, face twisted in anguish.
“The treatment ain’t working,” he manages, and Bucky wants to drive his head through a wall. Drive his fist into the gut of whoever keeps damning the Rogers family to this hell. This constant cloud of pain and loss. “And I sold that fucking painting for nothing. It was her favorite and I--” he cuts off, a keening noise sounding from his chest as he curls back in on himself.
“Fuck,” Bucky mutters, then takes a chance, reaching out. And Steve is magnetic as he shifts towards him, helpless to the comfort he can siphon from someone in his life as he melts into Bucky’s arms. Bucky holds him close, pressing his nose to the top of his head. Smelling Steve as he closes his eyes against his hair. The cowlick that tickles his cheeks. “We’ll find it,” he swears quietly. “We’ll get it back for her.”
And it’s an empty promise maybe, but sometimes empty promises are all he can give.
Now
“Come on, Buck! It’s gonna be real crowded, I wanna beat the rush!” Steve calls up the stairs, checking his watch again as he drapes his skates over his shoulder. A moment later, Bucky comes in from the garage, nearly scaring the pants off Steve. “Jesus, what were you doing in there?”
Bucky’s holding a large parcel, wrapped in gaudy Santa wrapping paper, and Steve’s eyebrows raise.
“Getting your present,” Bucky says, like it should have been obvious. Which it wasn’t. Steve hadn’t even realized they were planning to exchange anything on this outing. Bucky must see it in his face, because he rolls his eyes. “Relax, it’s just one I wanna give to you a little early.”
“Alright, then,” Steve says. “You ready to go?” Why Bucky is keen on lugging whatever’s in that package on the goddamn subway over to Rockefeller is beyond him.
“Yep, I’m all set,” Bucky says, picking up his own skates and slinging them over his other shoulder.
They get a few weird looks on the subway, decked out in skates and matching Christmas sweaters. And even Steve can’t help but flash Bucky the occasional bemused look as he appraises the present. It’s large, and skinny. Not exactly the kind of thing you’d bring with you to go ice skating.
But Bucky seems set on executing whatever plan he’s got, and Steve has never been one to get in the way of that.
It’s as crowded as Steve had imagined at Rockefeller Center when they arrive, and he supposes that’s par for the course on Christmas Eve. The tree is as magnificent as ever-- bigger than it ever was back before they died. Alight with colorful decorations, Steve slips his phone out of his pocket to take a picture.
“Maybe I’ll paint this whole thing one day,” he muses. “The rink, the people, the tree. Surprised I haven’t already.”
Next to him, Bucky makes a soft noise. “Speaking of…” He gently grabs Steve by the wrist and leads him over to the side, away from the largest crowds. A pocket of quiet underneath the looming skyscraper of Rockefeller Plaza.
Steve raises his eyebrows. “Speaking of?” he echoes, and Bucky takes a deep breath. He looks nervous as he hands Steve the parcel, and-- oh. It’s a painting. Steve would know the shape and weight anywhere. The familiar feel that he’s become intimately acquainted with over the years. The only thing he knows better than a canvas and a brush is Bucky’s body, he thinks. “What’s this?”
Bucky swallows. “Open it,” he says softly.
Steve casts him a last bemused look and carefully unwraps the Santa wrapping paper. Underneath is another layer of brown package paper, and Steve hands Bucky the scraps so he can unwrap it all the way. The canvas is upside down when he finally relieves it of its layers, but his mind is already buzzing with a strange sense of I know this. This is mine. And he shakes his head a bit as he turns it over and--
“Oh my god,” he breathes. His hands tremble where they hold the canvas, and he forces himself to loosen his grasp. “Oh my god” Because of course he knows this. It’s a part of him; a chipped piece of his soul-- of his past life-- that he’d lost far before he ever went to war. He looks up at Bucky, eyes wide and welling with tears. “Bucky, how…” he shakes his head, mouthing the word again. How.
And Bucky looks close to tears as well as he reaches out to steady Steve’s hand. “Tracked it down,” he says, like it’s as simple as that.
And Steve can’t breathe, because it feels like something in him is snapping back into place. A withered part of himself sliding back into the marrow of his bones, because fuck, this had been his ma’s favorite piece. The piece she praised time and time again. The piece she’d sworn looked like it would be at home in The Met, and Steve had always thought she had too much faith in him. But it’s like he’s looking at it through his ma’s eyes now, because suddenly, he wants to show the world. Wants to show the world the sort of thing she found so beautiful-- tell everyone what it was like in her head.
“You’re goddamn insane,” Steve says, taking one hand off the canvas to reach out for Bucky, tugging him close. Tugging their bodies together, shifting and melding into one another as their lips meet. Soft and sweet and intense all at once. “Insane, Barnes.”
“Maybe so,” Bucky says against his lips. “But I promised you we’d find it.”
Steve laughs suddenly, watery and loud. It fills him up, bubbling out of his pores, because yeah, he remembers now. Bucky had promised, hadn’t he? A lifetime ago. A world away. In the same city, among these same streets, he’d made that promise. And Bucky has never broken a damn one of those.
“I love you,” Steve promises, because he knows a thing or two about those, too. “I-- thank you. Thank you.”
Bucky leans back then, cupping his face. Sincerity has replaced the tightness in his eyes.
“I’d do it again,” he says, and Steve believes him.
They hang the painting in their bedroom at home, between the two windows on either side of their bed. The view outside the windows is different-- a new corner of the world to call their own. And their brownstone could fit several of Steve’s old apartment, but as he and Bucky settle back on the bed, knees brushing as they stare at the painting, he can’t help but feel like a little part of him just came home. Because Bucky has always been able to do that. Find the parts of him he didn’t even know were missing, and bring them home.