Archive of Our Own

“Last order of business,” says Steve, and you have never been more grateful for a set of words in your life, because you’ve been dying for a pee for the last ten minutes.

Except Steve turns to you. “Next Team Dinner is yours.”

You sit up a bit straighter. “Uh, what?”

“Dinner,” repeats Steve, whose gaze turns into that steely, determined Captain America look that you’ve long since realized means someone’s about to start regretting Life Decisions. Natasha and Clint are likely smirking on the other side of the conference table, but you can’t check because per usual, Steve’s Cap-face is pulling you in as surely as a tractor beam. “For the team. We’ll undoubtedly be pulled back out before you’re cleared for active duty again so this is a good time for you to take your turn. Doesn’t matter if it’s a five-course meal or cold cereal, you’re cooking.”

“How do you cook cold cereal?” you ask, and someone snorts nearby. You think it’s probably Bucky.

“For the record,” offers Clint. “I like beef wellington.”

“Sushi,” says Natasha. “Hand-rolled to order.”

“Nah, you guys are thinking too complicated,” says Sam. “I want ribs. Slow-cooked, maybe smoked. Homemade barbecue sauce.”

In a few more months, you might be brave enough to call them assholes; for now, you just set your chin on your fist. “Maybe I will give you guys cereal. The cheap supermarket-brand stuff.”

“And we’ll be happy to eat it,” says Steve. “Meeting adjourned.”

You can’t make too much of a break for it – it’ll look like a tactical retreat after that announcement – but no one else usually dallies either.

Steve still catches you before you get out of the room. “Hey,” he says, all Steve and no Cap, “you gonna be okay with dinner?”

You want to roll your eyes at him, but you’re still not entirely sure it’s not treason. “It’s cereal, Steve, I’ll be fine.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “You know I was just saying that, right? I was kinda hoping for those Boston baked beans, I hear good things.”

Making faces at Captain America is probably also treason, but Steve grins when you do, so you’re probably not going to the Raft today. “Please. Like I haven’t known this day was coming and bothered to put some thought into it. I’m going to make ziti.”

“Ziti,” echoes Steve, sounding somewhat doubtful.

“You’ll like it,” you tell him firmly. “Or you’ll make your own dinner yourself.”

“Fair enough,” says Steve, his mouth quirking a little, like he’s trying not to smile.

“Good,” you say, and this time, you get out of the door and into nearest restroom before anyone else can stop you.

*

Honestly, you’re surprised it took this long for you to do Team Dinner. It’s been several months since you officially joined the team; you’ve attended Team Dinners from every other Avenger, in every possible permeation. Tony always orders in, Clint always provides pizza, Bruce always makes something foreign and horrifically spicy, Steve boils or burns everything and Bucky’s go-to is grilled cheese sandwiches. (But very fancy ones.) Sam does breakfast-for-dinner on the regular (pancakes and waffles and omelets) and Natasha invited her sister over and the two of them presided over the most Midwestern meal you’ve ever eaten in your life, meatloaf and mashed potatoes and fruit-suspended-in-Jello for dessert.

So yeah. You knew this day was coming. Honestly, you’ve been kind of looking forward to it, because if you’re doing a Team Dinner, it means you really are part of the Team.

Which is probably stupid. Of course you’re part of the Team; you’ve got the Avengers patch on your uniform, you signed a three-inch stack of waivers in Maria Hill’s office, and you’ve been in the Tower long enough that the front desk staff doesn’t bother to card you anymore. Jarvis has half a dozen protocols you arranged, you go to your apartment in Avengers Tower on autopilot when you’re exhausted, and you’re almost blasé about having your own locker in the Armory.

You are not blasé about working in Tony’s lab, because you are never going to be blasé about working in Tony’s lab.

“Team Dinner, huh,” says Tony the day after Steve’s announcement. “Want to order in? There’s this Greek place I’ve been wanting to try.”

“I’m cooking, Tony.”

“You can cook?”

Tony, you can glare at, because you learned fast that he absolutely loves it when you push back. When he’s in a good or creative mood, it makes him go all manic and bouncy and the ideas start flowing faster than ever. When he’s in a bad mood, it gives him the excuse he needs to lash out and work through whatever’s bothering him.

He grins. “Well, look at that, previously untapped abilities. What are you making, kiddo? Do I want to make sure Pepper and I are out of the Tower that night?”

“Ziti,” you tell him.

“Safe choice.”

“Maybe a little. But it’s the one thing I know I can make in mass quantities and it’ll be good and everyone will like it. Well. I think they’ll like it. They’ll eat it, anyway, even if it’s just to be polite.”

Tony watches you for a moment. You don’t look up from your current project, but you can feel his gaze on you anyway. Like he’s mentally measuring you out in millimeters. “All right.”

You look up, but he’s already walking back to his end of the lab. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means all right, kiddo,” Tony calls over his shoulder. “Ziti, garlic bread – you’re making garlic bread, right? Totally legit option. Make sure you do a salad or veg on the side or Bruce will grumble about vitamins. Pepper likes ziti, we’ll probably show up. How’s your head, can I play Ozzy or will that be too much?”

“Too much,” you say, almost absently, because you’re trying to figure out what Tony means by all right. And why wouldn’t you want to make sure everyone likes your team dinner? Does he honestly think you’d want to rock the boat? “Taylor?”

“Taylor?!? Taylor?!?! Jeez, kiddo, you’re killing me here.”

*

Your chance at team dinner comes three days later, and the moment the Quinjet leaves the hangar, you’re in the elevator and heading to the kitchen like a flash.

“Jarvis,” you say, “do I have all the ingredients I need?”

“Yes, miss,” says Jarvis. “Given the last ten Doombot attacks, I predict the team will return in six hours, ten minutes.”

You nod. “Plenty of time.”

It’s a little weird, being in the communal spaces without anyone else nearby. Maybe it’s because despite being so big and airy, you’re used to the rest of the team taking up space there, every one of them already larger than life. They’re not, you’ve been around them long enough now to know that they’re real people, with their own idiosyncrasies and terrible habits and personal faults.

Clint leaves his mugs of coffee everywhere; it’s why you steal his every morning now, because you’d accidentally picked up a mug you thought he’d abandoned only to discover that no, in fact he wasn’t done drinking it yet.

Natasha fidgets; her fingers are never still. If she’s not reading a book and playing with the pages, then she’s braiding and re-braiding her hair or yours, or folding little scraps of paper into origami stars or Jacob’s ladders.

Steve draws; you’re so used to the sound of his pencil scratching that you barely notice it anymore. He never shows anyone what he’s drawing, either, not until it’s done, and then it appears without warning. Sketches pinned to the fridge with magnets, or appearing under one’s doorway, or slipped into their locker like you’re all back in high school.

And Bucky—

“Aren’t you supposed to cook the pasta first?” asks Bucky, appearing like a specter on the other side of the counter. How a guy that big can appear out of absolutely nowhere without anyone knowing it, you have no idea. You shriek and drop the jar of sauce into the Dutch oven; luckily, there’s enough of the dry ziti to cushion the fall.

“You are so lucky this jar didn’t break,” you snap at him, pulling it out and inspecting it for nicks or cracks.

“Yeah, luckiest guy alive,” says Bucky dryly.

“I thought you were supposed to go with them.”

Bucky shrugs. “Yeah. Well. Therapy ran late and Steve’s an asshole, so...”

You glance at him quickly, but his shoulders are hunched and he glares at the counter, so you quickly look away.

It’s quiet for a few minutes while you dump another jar of sauce into the second Dutch oven. Bucky is still sitting on the other side of the counter, but you’re stymied from conversation, unsure where to go after the brief mention of therapy.

If you were anyone else, you’d probably know exactly what to say, what he’d want, why he’s still sitting there, as if he wants company but doesn’t actually want to be company.

You move the Dutch ovens to the side and reach for the ricotta, dumping it in bowl and then going into the pantry to hunt down the herbs.

Bucky frowns, watching you add the dried greenery to the cheese.

“Don’t make that face at me,” you tell him. “I never claimed to be a gourmet chef. Store-bought is totally fine.”

“I thought you worked at a restaurant that one time?”

“Yeah, washing dishes. For like, three weeks.”

“What happened?”

“Owner was arrested for money laundering,” you say lightly, as if you had absolutely nothing to do with it. Bucky gives you a look though, and you shake some more basil into the cheese. “It’s gonna be good, don’t worry about it.”

“You make this before? ‘Cause I don’t see a recipe anywhere.”

You stir the herbs into the cheese. “Yeah. All the time. Not in a few years, though.”

And it was different every time, because your mother would change the recipe based on what she had in the kitchen. Sausage one time, ground beef the next. Sometimes jarred sauce, sometimes home-made. Sometimes there’d be a little less ricotta, a little more cottage cheese, sometimes she’d add wilted spinach, sometimes she’d put in fresh onions and garlic and peppers. Shredded mozzarella, or freshly drained and sliced from those little pillow packets that you’d pretend to try and burst over the kitchen.

No ziti was ever the same, but they all tasted wonderful.

You wonder, briefly, what she’d think of you making it here, now, for them. You wish…

You shove the wish aside, wipe your damp eyes with the back of your hand, and hope Bucky can’t tell why you’re blinking fast and hard. Except he probably can, he hasn’t really stopped staring at you since he looked up from the counter.

“It’ll be good,” you repeat, adding the ricotta to the pasta-and-sauce mixture.

“I believe you,” he says. “But seriously. Dry pasta?”

“It’s a new day, Barnes,” you tell him loftily.

Bucky’s mouth quirks. “It’s a new dawn?”

You grin at him. “Oh, you know it?”

“Well, it ain’t from my day, but it’ll do.”

You frown at him. “Seriously? J, when did that song come out? You know, it’s a new day, it’s a new dawn…”

“The correct title of the song is Feeling Good,” says Jarvis, in that tone that always reminds you of your high school English teacher, who was perpetually annoyed about what his students didn’t know and far too tired of them to hide it, “and it was first recorded by Nina Simone in 1965.”

“Huh,” you say, as the song starts to play. “Guess you do listen to something more recent than the Andrews Sisters.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Well, it’s not that noise Stark blares out of his lab at all hours. I don’t know how you haven’t lost your hearing yet.”

You cup your ear with your hand and lean toward him. “Eh? Sorry, can’t hear you, Tony blasts his music really loud, I’m going deaf.”

Bucky rolls his eyes but he grins at you anyway. “So what are you making? Not cold cereal, I take it.”

“Ziti. But you’ll be happy to know it’s dry pasta and jarred sauce and store-bought sausage. I thought about making the cheese myself, but—”

Bucky snorts. “That the sausage? Don’t suppose you made extra?”

You glance at the plate, where the sausage is cooling. “You can have one.”

Bucky grins and comes into the kitchen proper. You hear him behind you, messing around with a plate and fork and who knows what else; he’s assembling some kind of sandwich, given the number of things he pulls out of the fridge.

“How’s your head?” he calls over his shoulder.

“On my shoulders.”

Something hits the back of your head; you look down at the floor and see a grape tomato. “Did you throw a tomato at me, Barnes? And me with a concussion. That is like, seriously rude.”

“Answer the question.”

“I’m fine. No fog, no dizziness, no confusion.”

“You didn’t cook the pasta first.”

“I told you, it’s a new day. You don’t have to cook pasta first, it cooks in the sauce. You just add extra sauce.”

“If you say so.”

You start slicing the sausages. “It’s how my mom did it.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything to that.

Then again, it was sort of a conversation stopper. Your hand is halfway up to your neck before you remember that your entwined heart necklace is in a box in your apartment downstairs.

If Bucky notices the aborted movement, he doesn’t say anything.

And this old world is a new world…

You don’t realize Bucky’s singing for a few moments, because it’s under his breath, and Nina is louder.

He’s got a nice voice, though. A little scratchy, but nice. It works well with Nina.

…and a bold world, for me…

He moves out of the kitchen as you continue prepping, but he sits on the other side of the counter to eat. And, you note, watch you with the knife.

“I’m not going to chop my fingers off,” you tell him.

“I know no such thing,” he says, lazy and far more focused on his sandwich. “Worst knife skills I ever seen on a dame.”

You glare and point the knife at him; he scoffs and takes a bite of his sandwich, clearly unconcerned. It’s a hell of a sandwich, you’re not even sure how he’s able to eat the thing without dislocating his jaw. Apart from the sausage, you see at least two other meats, several cheeses, most of the spinach, a few halved grape tomatoes, and maybe even the leftover potatoes from the previous night. It’s at least six inches tall, and that’s after Bucky picks it up and squashes it down a bit flatter.

“Jeez, Buck, did you leave anything for anyone else?”

“Why? You’re making ziti for team dinner.”

You snort and go back to slicing the sausages. “Okay.”

“How long’s it gotta cook for anyway? They won’t be back for a few hours.”

“Five, if Jarvis is right. Anyway, I’m only assembling it now. It doesn’t need more than forty-five minutes in the oven, I can bake it once they’re on their way back.”

“Your head really all right?”

You glance at him. “Why? Did I miss something?”

“No idea. But if you’ve got time and your head’s good, maybe you can help me test that new Beretta in the range?”

You break into a grin. “Definitely. Just gotta finish this and do one other thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Well,” you say, sliding the sliced sausage on top of the pasta-and-sauce-and-cheese mixture, “I keep thinking of poor Doctor Von Doom, who went all that way and I’m not even there for him to antagonize. I figured I’d send him a little apology note.”

“You’re going to Rickroll him.”

“Well, yeah, that’s the apology note.”

Bucky’s shaking his head – and, amazingly, shoving the last bite of his ridiculous sandwich into his mouth. “You’re a menace.”

You just grin at him, ignoring the warm buzz that his admiration and amusement gives you. The music shifts easily into the next song – Billie Holliday singing about pennies, and Bucky settles in with a smile on his face, clearly recognizing it. You don’t, but that’s fine; it’s good background music for cooking or eating sausage sandwiches piled high, and there’s no conversation but it’s still an easy silence between the two of you.

Easy, too, when the Dutch ovens are in the fridge and you’re just done washing the dishes when Bucky comes into the kitchen.

“Here, I’ll do it,” you offer, reaching for his empty plate.

He holds the plate out of your reach. “Your ma taught you how to cook ziti, my ma taught me to wash a plate. Go send your Rickroll, I’ll meet you in the range.”

You’re in the elevator before you realize.

That’s the first time anyone on the team has mentioned your parents to you since you moved in.

And you’d smiled, because the memory hadn’t hurt.

Not hurting hurts almost as much as actually hurting, but it’s a good hurt.

“Miss?” says Jarvis, the elevator slowing.

“It’s okay, J,” you say, and you think you mean it. The elevator speeds up again.

You smile, even though it’s shaky, and you blink back the sudden rush of tears. Thankfully, it’s short-lived, and when you get the range, Bucky’s got the new Beretta ready and waiting for you.

*

Four hours later and you lovingly cradle the Beretta in your hands while Bucky tries very hard not to laugh at you. He’s not entirely successful; you don’t entirely care, because you have found your new favorite toy – and for once, it’s not electronic.

“This is mine now,” you announce firmly. “I have taken it apart and put it back together and one day, when it’s legal, I’m going to marry it.”

“The gun,” clarifies Bucky, giggling.

You clutch the Beretta to your chest. Luckily, it’s unloaded, because Safety First. “Don’t mock our love. It is pure and honest and true, and anyway it’s not like you don’t sleep with your Sauer.”

“Vicious lies.”

“I’ve seen you.”

“On a mission, sure.”

“On the Quinjet. Where there’s a weapons locker.”

“And let my baby mingle with that rabble?” scoffs Bucky.

“It’s good for her,” you tell him. “Builds immunity. And anyway, if you truly love something, you have to let it go and it’ll come back to you.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow, and then holds out his hand. Like he’s expecting you to actually hand over your Beretta.

You narrow your eyes and give him your very best glare. He just raises an eyebrow and stares right back at you.

It’s definitely turning into a stand-off when Jarvis interrupts. “The Quinjet has left Montreal and will be back in the Tower in approximately one hour.”

“Thanks, J,” you say cheerfully, and then pat the gun – though really, it’s more for Bucky’s amusement than yours. Or the gun’s. Which you really are going to claim. “It’s okay, baby, I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Seriously, why?”

“I learned it from watching you,” you tell him sweetly. He rolls his eyes and takes the gun to put it back in the locker. “Seriously? You don’t get that reference? I’m complaining to Clint, he should have covered bad 1980s television commercials.”

“How do you know bad 1980s television commercials.”

“Well, not all of them, but that one kind of turned into a meme.”

Bucky snorts, closing the locker – but not before you notice that the Beretta is safely marked with your name. “I resent the implication that I have personified my weapons.”

“Bucky. You literally named your guns.”

“Well, sure, how else am I supposed to tell them apart?”

The bantering continues through the rest of clean-up, all the way to the elevators, and into the kitchen.

When Bucky gets off the elevator with you, you stop and give him a look. “Um… are you following me?”

“No?” says Bucky, suddenly awkward. “I’m… going for a snack?”

You frown at him. “No. You’re following me. You’ve been following me all afternoon. Oh, jeez. Tell me Steve didn’t put you on babysitting duty. I’m fine. It’s been two weeks, Bruce already said this morning I can be cleared for duty.”

“I know you’re fine, or I wouldn’t have suggested target practice,” says Bucky, slightly annoyed. “And I’m not babysitting you.”

“Good.” You pause. “Just… you don’t have anything better to do?”

He frowns at you – and that’s when you notice.

He’s fidgeting. His fingers tapping on his thigh, over and over. And he’s not really frowning at you, as much as he’s frowning in your direction, because he’s not meeting your eyes exactly.

“Just…” mutters Bucky. “Therapy ran long. Okay?”

You nod, not entirely sure how to answer. Except that you really, really wish Clint or Nat or Steve had stayed behind, too. They’d know what Bucky needs, what they should say or do to help him get over whatever happened in therapy that’s left him hanging.

“I’m not going to snap, if that’s what’s worrying you,” says Bucky, and you straighten a little.

“I know. It wasn’t.”

“Nothing to do with you.”

“I know.” You wish you could reach out and touch him. You’re not even sure he wants to be touched, really. Not like you have the right to be the one doing it. “Just… is there something I can do to… um. Help?”

He glances at you. “You’re doing it already.”

“Oh.” Somehow, that’s even more unnerving. “Um. I have to start the ziti.”

“Mind if I play music?” Bucky calls after you. “Nothin’ loud, I promise.”

“Knock yourself out.”

He doesn’t follow you into the kitchen – but he doesn’t leave the floor, either. You hear him ask Jarvis a question, and after a few minutes, the sounds of Dean Martin singing fill the room.

Mambo Italiano. It’s a good song for tomato sauce and pasta and garlic and cheese. You try to stifle the giggles, but you’re cheerfully bouncing and gyrating to the beat as you turn on the oven, pull the ziti from the fridge, sprinkle the mozzarella on top of the pasta. And maybe your moves are getting a little suggestive, but… well, it’s not like Bucky’s watching, and anyway, it’s a mambo, how else are you going to dance?

The song’s already transitioning when you slide both Dutch ovens in to cook. Frank Sinatra, singing with a woman about being stupid together.

And you feel stupid, because the loaves of ciabatta wait on the counter, just where you left them.

The garlic butter, which you’d prepared first, does not.

For a minute, you think you’re going to cry, and it doesn’t get better when you find the bowl you’d left the butter in, cleaned and drying in the dish rack next to Bucky’s plate and knife, where Bucky had undoubtedly left them after sending you off to prank Doctor Doom.

You almost march out to find him and give him a piece of your mind…

But then you remember the way he’d devoured the sandwich, how he’d relaxed and settled with every bite. His focus and patience down in the range, even when you struggled to remember how to reassemble what to him was probably an overly simplified firearm.

How he’d mentioned your mother and his in the same breath, casually, like he’s mentioned his mother a thousand times before. Like you’ve done the same. Like they’re both somewhere, alive and happy and waiting for either of you to give them a call.

You take a breath and go to the fridge and pull out two sticks of butter. There isn’t time to soften it; you’ll have to melt part and hope you can mix in enough cold to get the right consistency. Luckily there’s still enough garlic in the pantry, so you start chopping.

“Kind of late to be chopping garlic, isn’t it?” Bucky’s somewhere behind you, and for a moment you want to lash out or cry or maybe ignore him, but he sounds… normal, after the tension he carried earlier. Like the couple of hours you spent in the range playing with the new Beretta had actually helped.

You’re doing it already, he’d said. Except you hadn’t done anything, not really.

You can’t lash out at him.

“Well,” you say, hoping your voice is even, “the garlic butter I made earlier disappeared.”

Bucky goes quiet. “Oh.”

“Mmm,” you agree, and keep chopping.

Bucky sighs and reaches over to grab the knife from you. “Give me that.”

“No, it’s fine.”

“No, it’s not, give me the knife.” He stands so close behind you, you feel the heat from his body, maybe even his breath against your hair.

“I can do it, it’s okay—”

“Darlin’,” says Bucky shortly, and the pet name catches you off guard. You turn, startled – and he’s right there. “Give me—”

He doesn’t finish, because his mouth is inches from yours.

For a moment, neither of you breathe.

He shaved that morning, you smell the scent of whatever he uses on his skin. There’s already stubble coming in, you see it on his cheeks and creeping down his neck. One of his teeth is just the tiniest bit crooked in front, and there’s a reddened, slightly swollen spot on his lower lip, like he’s been worrying at it all afternoon.

He isn’t really that much taller than you are. He always seems so much bigger, when you’re out in the field, doing your jobs. But here in the kitchen, close enough to breathe the same air…

You could kiss him. Up on your toes. You think he’d kiss back. He looks like he’s thinking the same thing.

You’d agreed, both of you. No kissing. Not going there. Not even if you both really, really want it.

(You think he wants it.)

And then I go and spoil it all by saying somethin’ stupid… croons Frank.

You’re a hair’s breath away from trying, when he shudders and takes a step back.

“Sorry, I—”

“No, it’s fine, I—I should do a salad.”

You drop the knife on the counter and dart around him, opening the fridge and sticking your head inside. Maybe it’s an effort to cool your overheated skin; maybe it’s because it’s a really good way to hide the flush on your cheeks.

“Are you—”

“I’m fine,” you squeak. “Are there lemons? I can make a salad dressing.”

“Yes?”

“Good.”

“Are you coming out of the fridge?”

“Are you going to chop the garlic?”

The sounds of chopping fill the air a moment later. “They’re not going to be pretty.”

“They don’t need to be pretty, they just need to be on the garlic bread,” you say as the music changes again.

That’s life! Frank sings out.

There’s a crash from where Bucky’s chopping the garlic, and you glance over in time to see him glaring at the ceiling, the knife still spinning on the counter where he’d slammed it down.

“Buck?”

“Funny, Jarvis,” snaps Bucky at the ceiling.

“Apologies, Sergeant Barnes,” says Jarvis smoothly. “Would you like a different song?”

“Taylor?” you ask sweetly.

“Sure,” grumbles Bucky. “Why the hell not.”

But the music that starts isn’t what you expect, and after a moment, you and Bucky look at each other and start laughing.

“Wrong Taylor, Jarvis,” you choke out between giggles.

“Leave it. It’ll do,” says Bucky, picking the knife back up.

The song’s not half over, when you realize you’re not the only one singing along.

Winter, spring, summer or fall

All you’ve got to do is call…

Yeah. This will do.

*

“Woah, this smells way better than cold cereal,” calls Clint when the team arrives about an hour later. You grin at the garlic bread, which is garlicky and crisp and smells so much like one of your favorite memories that you want to cry.

“It’ll be ready in ten minutes,” you tell them, slapping away the first hand you see creeping toward the garlic bread. “No stealing the garlic bread.”

“Treason,” says Steve, shaking his hand.

“Fine. You can have one piece if you agree that the new Beretta is mine, all mine.”

“Bucky!” yells Steve. “She has a concussion. What the hell were you doing, taking her down to the range?”

“Who says I was the one who took her? Anyway, she’s fine,” Bucky yells back. “Hands off the garlic bread, Rogers, I know your ma taught you better manners than that.”

The ziti is a hit, the garlic bread is gone in minutes, the salad is a memory and even the afterthought-roasted-veggies are mostly gone. You are so proud of yourself, already thinking ahead to what you want to try on your next go at Team Dinner, floating along on a wave of happiness and a full stomach and the success of a job well done.

Sam and Pepper and Bruce all have seconds. It is the best night ever.

So of course it’s Steve who turns to you and says, “So, what’s for dessert?”

And it all comes crashing down. The shock and sudden oh shit must be evident on your face, too, because the entire table bursts into laughter, even as you cover your face with your hands and try to slink down your chair to the floor.

In the end, you raid the freezer for ice cream, and Bruce and Pepper are the ones to clean up (because the cooks never do), and you curl up on the couch near Natasha to watch whatever movie they insist Steve and Bucky need to see. Bucky is on the couch next to yours with a bowl of popcorn that he’ll undoubtedly refuse to share, and Steve sits next to him, busily working on a new sketch.

“The Beretta, huh?” Natasha asks you quietly.

You nod. “Bucky already showed me how to take it apart and put it back together again.”

“Okay.” She plays with the end of your ponytail for a moment. “Could have used you out there today.”

You grin, lowering your eyes a bit because it’s embarrassing how much Natasha’s words send a flush to your cheeks.

“She was useful here, too,” says Bucky. Natasha glances at him with a raised eyebrow.

“Yeah, send that recipe to Laura, I want it again sometime,” says Clint, sprawled out on a nearby chair. “Hey, Banner, get your ass over here, I’m starting the movie.”

“Go ahead, we’re almost done.”

Natasha nudges you. “Sit up, your hair’s a mess.”

You do, and close your eyes while she puts your hair in a quick French braid.

You listen to the rest of them talk and laugh and move around you. Pepper laughs at something Steve says; Tony complains about the movie selection for the night; Clint and Sam argue light-heartedly about preferred movie snacks. It’s a normal Team Dinner night, just like every other one you’ve had, except better, because it’s yours.

Natasha’s fingers are light on your scalp, separating strands of hair for the braid. Your eyes are warm and wet, but you can’t stop smiling.

When she’s done, and you open your eyes again, the movie’s already begun, so it’s almost too dark to catch Bucky’s eyes.

But the moment there’s enough glow from the screen, you look over at him, and mouth, thank you.

He mouths back, you’re welcome. At least, you think he does, since it’s too dark to see properly.

All you gotta do is call, and I’ll be there…

You think maybe you know what you did to help earlier now.

And you watch the rest of the movie with a smile on your face.