Chapter Text
One has abundant time for thinking, when one’s days consist of sleeping, physical therapy, recovering from physical therapy (i.e., napping), and taking 45 minutes for one damn shower because one moves at approximately the speed of a sloth on sedatives. Barnes and Rogers make a new routine of slow walks, first just down to the coffee bar and back.
“Okay, let me take a look at you,” Katie says.
“You look thin,” she continues after staring him up and down. “Extra extra whip for you, my friend.”
Rogers grins.
Barnes identifies: curiosity.
“Were you here when the robots came?”
He doesn’t miss the way Rogers gawps at him in response to his question.
“No, I was scheduled for a few hours after it happened. The cops wouldn’t even let me in when I showed up. It looked so terrible, with the windows shattered and the floor all torn up.”
Katie puts her hand on his arm. The left arm, which she was never afraid of.
“There was so much blood. I freaked out when I found out you were the one hurt, Barnes. I’m really glad you’re okay. I totally cried all over Sam when he said you would be all right.”
This is gratifying. Katie has long been a mission -
Wait.
“You know Sam?” Rogers asks.
Thank god, someone was going to have to ask.
Adding to the surprise, Katie’s face flushes deep red.
“Uh, I’ve gotten to know him a little bit during his visits,” she says. “Thanks to him, I’m kind of, uh. Dating his cousin, now.”
Barnes remembers the heavy sadness Katie often wore during their late-night visits together when Barnes was unable to sleep over the previous winter. He leans down to look at her pink face, and there’s something easier about the expression in her eyes.
Even she has found refuge in this place.
“Katie,” he says, “that’s good.”
“It is,” she says. “Things are really good.”
“Coffee is magic,” Barnes says when he and Rogers are tucked back into the elevator upstairs, each with a cardboard cup in hand.
“Or maybe it’s Sam that’s magic.”
“Both.”
Rogers snorts.
“You’re probably right about that.”
It takes a week to work up to walking at an obnoxiously slow pace all the way to the Carp, where his welcome involves a great deal more fussing than tenderness, including the application of a ladle to his (left) shoulder, courtesy of daughter Kazue.
Through the fabric of Barnes’s clothes, this makes a dull thunk that causes a highly unanticipated reaction.
“He still on drugs?” Mr. Hayashi asks after a pause.
“I don’t think so. Maybe he’s woozy from the long walk,” Rogers says.
Kazue pats his arm.
“Don’t listen to these two old farts. I thought it was funny too.”
Barnes wipes his eyes and rubs his cheeks, which are sore from the unfamiliar activity. Additionally: laughter is uncomfortable for healing abdominal muscles. Not that he could’ve helped if he tried.
Barnes having the stamina of a malnourished kitten necessitates a great deal of time on the sofa. He and Rogers continue listening to audiobooks, and with careful coaching, Rogers learns to produce an acceptable version of grilled cheese.
Hair Club takes over the place several afternoons, and Barnes is introduced to the intense pleasure of watching Romanoff and Hill "convince" Rogers to stay with them via the skillful application of two knitted afghans and some rapidly tied knots.
Four tall portable heaters appear on the terrace outside the common room – and Barnes resolutely ignores the cleared throats and red noses directed at him the first time he shows up to dinner outside with everyone. But he sees it. Lets them all see him.
The return to routine is comforting: walks, dinners, yanking Rogers's chain. Even physical therapy becomes a welcome activity, as his strength slowly returns and he feels less shredded and stomped on. The tedium of his exercises is like an op: his brain recovers along with his body as he practices maintaining focus despite creeping boredom. All the small steps necessary to return to baseline.
Except.
Is it baseline that he returns to. Or something else.
Barnes has greater access, now, to everything. It makes discomfort, but also gratitude, to remember what it was like to recover from injury in the Asset days, roughly patched up and slung into cryo, pulled back out again amid lightning, drugs, and orders just to do it all over again.
The same, but different.
It’s not as if the world has a shortage of bad guys. Somebody’s always going to be causing trouble somewhere for the downtrodden and helpless, and it’s the job of everyone around him – not to mention Steve’s avocation – to assist said helpless (and, occasionally, hapless). A direct comparison can be made: the tower is like cryo, now: his place of rest between episodes of danger and violence. But how vastly improved, to be warm and awake. To be surrounded by people who have made it clear that his presence is welcome. People who will not follow him into danger, but go with him, alongside, and share the burden.
Barnes returns from physical therapy several times – and wakes on the sofa several other times – to see Rogers sitting in front of the easel, paint on his hands (once a smear of orange on his cheek) and an expression of peaceful concentration on his face. But he covers the canvas with a cloth any time Barnes might see it.
Barnes spends 160 minutes one afternoon pretending to sleep and watching through slitted eyes as Rogers paints. The briefing adds a new layer to his thinking while he sits still and quiet, his cheek leaned against the back of the sofa. It shows him the Bucky-person with the Howling Commandos: another group of people who went with him into danger. Another population of those caught up willingly in Steve’s gravitational pull, and whose presence made various spaces, no matter how cold and muddy, feel something like home.
Perhaps Rogers would like to know that Barnes and the Bucky-person have this pattern in common.
It makes an idea arise in his head. He stretches, and Rogers pulls back from the canvas, runs a hand smeared with several paint colors through his hair.
“Okay over there?” he asks.
“Okay.”
It’s a true statement, both specifically for the moment, and in general. Rehab is slow and obnoxious, but Barnes regains strength, with the added benefit of Stark’s medical interference having resulted in decreased back pain and increased efficiency.
“Well, you know,” Stark says, staring at the floor, when Barnes tells him this.
“It’s fine. No big deal. Whatever. Don’t grin at me like that, Barnes, I told you it’s no big deal, you’re weirding me out.”
Barnes expresses his gratitude to Pepper, too, so Stark’ll get the bonus points. He’s generous like that.
“That’s normal, Barnes,” flying Sam tells him, voice warm over the phone line while Barnes sits on the balcony on one of the last warm afternoons of the year.
“Lots of people feel open and grateful after a close call.”
“It’s good, Sam,” he says.
When he answers, flying Sam’s voice is soft.
“It is, Barnes. You sit with that feeling as long as you can, it’ll stick with you. Got any ideas about what to do about it?”
Barnes tells Sam his Halloween idea.
“Aw man, that’s really good. That’s gonna go over great.”
And it’s fun, to enlist the tower residents in his plan to surprise Rogers by dressing as the Bucky-person. It creates satisfaction to see how eager they are to assist in something that will make Steve happy.
To see how they love him.
Mission. We know what love looks like now.
CONFIRM
It’s good.
CONFIRM
“Jeez, what a sap,” the briefing adds.
But Barnes can tell that also means “confirm.”
He sees it again, walking into that loud, dark room at the Halloween party, when Steve’s face breaks open at the sight of him in the outfit from the past. There’s still a tiny corner in the back of his mind that feels bitterness and fear that Steve can’t identify the difference between the Bucky of back then and the Barnes of now. But with greater access to his own memory, Barnes can understand better how mixed up it all is for Steve. Especially given Steve’s poor self-knowledge skills. And Barnes can also choose now. He has practice at making choices. He can choose to give Steve the benefit of the doubt, while retaining the option to berate him later if he screws up.
He can let Steve cry on him again, and set aside just that much more of the weight Steve carries around. He can sit close, shoulders touching, until Steve’s turmoil eases, leaving behind the easy grin that Barnes knows better than his own face.
The whole Halloween thing must be a success, emotional outbursts and all, because 3 days later Rogers presents him with the canvas.
“I don’t usually work in abstract,” Rogers says, looking at the skyline outside. “It just. Felt right. I hope you like it, Buck.”
Barnes sits in front of the painting for an entire afternoon while Rogers and flying Sam yell at football, watching the sunshine move across it. At first, it looked like a mess of color, but over time, in the shifting light, Barnes sees patterns emerge. In one corner, there’s a bright whirl of red, navy, gold, green, and grey that over time reminds Barnes of the Avengers moving together as a unit. In the background there’s a faint grid, as of brick buildings, and a slash of bright blue across most of the middle – a calm color, not quite the shade of his own eyes, or Steve’s, or even the blue jacket, but reminiscent of all three. There’s a small puddle of sunlight near the top, and a dark bit near the center that has a thick texture, raised up off the canvas, but it’s broken up by that peaceful blue.
There’s a story in this painting. He doesn’t understand it, yet, but he can see that it’s there. That it is their story. If he looks at it enough, maybe he’ll be able to read the story in it.
“I get it,” he says, finally. “I like it.”
And he sees that that the bright bit in the top corner is really Steve’s sunrise smile.
It’s funny that he has more trouble convincing Stark about Thanksgiving than he did about Halloween, given that the latter was the one that required actual effort and cost outlay on his part.
Barnes sits on one of the workroom stools, holding hands with Bite Size and letting Hamburger Helper make his hair into stubby little braids, and listens to 7 different variations on,
“I don’t see why you want to put yourself to all that trouble. It only takes one phone call and we can have the best food in the city,”
before Barnes realizes that Stark’s being shy. That his discomfort is based on having to receive.
Barnes remembers that feeling. And he knows how to get around it.
“I like to cook,” he says. “I was hoping if I gave you the menu, you’d take care of the wine.”
Stark blinks, and a small smile flashes across his face that Barnes would’ve missed if he hadn’t been looking for it.
“Oh, well, sure. I can help if you need it, Barnes. The whole gang, right? And our Brooklyn friends? Yeah, I can do that, if you insist.”
Conjecture: Stark would benefit from a closer relationship with both Esther and flying Sam.
There’s time to make that happen.
Preparations for Thanksgiving are even more enjoyable the second time around. Barnes and Banner go to Brooklyn together and sit with Esther in the bright, warm apartment, looking at approximately 700 recipes before they decide on a menu. It takes more than one visit, because they discover that Esther has a whole collection of elderly, annotated cookbooks and two small plastic cases full of handwritten notecards, with accompanying stories for nearly each recipe. It gives Barnes a number of ideas in the direction of Christmas cookies. And cat Eleanor immediately loves Banner, who is so alarmed and pleased by her attentions that Barnes is only a little envious.
He and Esther make pies, cheesecake, and dinner rolls the day before the holiday. The driver of the Stark car he takes back to Manhattan remarks on the excellent scent of his numerous boxes, and in the spirit of the holiday, Barnes gives him a dozen dinner rolls. Not like it isn’t a simple matter to make more at home.
At home.
Nice.
CONFIRM
In the morning, Rogers assigns himself cleaning and table-setting duty.
“Thanksgiving superhero,” Barnes says.
Rogers grins.
“Just trying to serve my country,” he says.
“Yeah, well, your country can see a glob of dried paint over on the floor by the balcony door.”
“Sometimes my country is an asshole.”
Stark and Pepper arrive early, each carrying a box filled with bottles, and leave again to each bring another. Rogers sets Stark up in the corner at a makeshift bar and finds space in the fridge for various wines to cool. Barnes puts Pepper to work peeling potatoes both sweet and white.
“As long as you won’t ruin your manicure,” he says.
Pepper grins, making her nose crinkle in the way that he likes.
“I guarantee that I like mashed potatoes better than I like fancy fingernails,” she says, demonstrating her usual excellent taste.
“Now tell me about these sweet potatoes. You’re not putting anything gross like marshmallow fluff in them, are you?”
The description of the recipe, involving shallots and balsamic vinegar, makes her do a little dance. It’s very cute.
Everyone but flying Sam arrives long before the meal is ready – the Olds because Esther is needed for preparation, and everyone else because they’re too nosy to miss out on any potential fun. Flying Sam will only be available once released by his mother.
Hill brings a paper grocery bag with bright-colored boxes in it that she sets by the door before setting to bossing Rogers around from an unhelpful perch on the sofa next to Lydia.
Banner brings his alarming contraption for cooking the turkey, with Romanoff and Barton in tow bearing birds and jugs of peanut oil. The three of them set up outside on the balcony in a mild effort to make it look as if they’re not going to burn the tower down, and Ollie joins them to supervise and flirt.
It makes the apartment feel small and loud, but Barnes identifies: enjoyment. They’re missing a few members – Thor off on some other world, the Hayashis clearly thrilled to have received an invitation but insistent on the Carp remaining open to take advantage of hungry Thanksgiving parade-goers, flying Sam coming by later, hopefully with Katie and cousin in tow.
Barnes and Esther work, with Pepper as the world’s most charming assistant, with the Macy’s parade as background accompaniment and afterward, at Hill’s insistence, piano music from an album called “December,” despite its being the incorrect month. Stark lubricates everyone from his kingdom of bottles, Rogers has cleaned the apartment to a sparkle that’s probably medically sterile, and everyone’s on their best behavior in honor of the Olds.
Previously, Barnes remembers, he had been concerned with correctness. Given his incomplete understanding, Barnes had thought that the holiday could be ruined by sub-optimal comestibles and a lack of proper gratitude. He knows now that the parameters of a successful holiday have less to do with the perfection of food than with the company and the willingness of all attendees to have a good time despite any circumstances. Also, he knows the sound of the damn oven timer and is therefore less likely to throw anyone across the room for their own safety.
But he is a man with highly developed cooking skills and excellent assistance, and the food comes out amazing. Banner et al. deep-fry their turkeys to a delectable golden-brown without setting anything on fire. The various vegetables come to fruition without incident, and the breads cause only the slightest trouble by browning slightly too much under the broiler. Rogers and Hill have made the long table beautiful, and Stark has ensured that everyone’s just enough soused to feel happy and loose.
It is – lovely. The food is delicious, the conversation is ongoing, and Barnes cannot identify a single flaw. The Olds, the tower residents, the blue sky outside, and the warmth and rich scents of the room - it is almost everything he could ever desire. After the meal, Hill pulls out her bag, and it’s full of board games for those who do not wish to watch sports. Barnes finds himself happily strong-armed into a game that requires him to use strategy to take over proscribed world territories.
Please. Like anyone has a chance beating him at that.
(Romanoff wins.
Brat.
CONFIRM)
Just when everyone has had enough time that they’re beginning to speak to one another approvingly of dessert-type items, and Stark has retreated to his bar for a new round of alcoholic adventures, flying Sam arrives, albeit without Katie and mysterious cousin in tow. He refuses all offers of dessert until presented with a slender wedge of Lidia’s bourbon-pecan pie, after which he lies on the floor with the button of his jeans undone.
Barnes stands, a small plate with a half-eaten slice of apple-crumble cheesecake in one hand, and surveys the room. His room, filled with almost all the people he would wish to have in it. Banner and Romanoff are out on the balcony, tipping partially cooled peanut oil back into plastic jugs. Pepper sits in the chair that usually lives inside the reading forest, a mug of spiked coffee in one hand and the other tangled in Stark’s hair as he sits at her feet. Hill and Ollie are playing gin, with Lidia “advising,” and Esther leans against Rogers while they speak quietly of something that makes them smile at Sam.
The Asset could never have imagined this – the Asset never knew such a thing could’ve existed. But the Bucky-person, deep on the inside, makes a long sigh of content. So many decades, they’ve wanted, and now there will so many more to come in which to enjoy.
“Doing okay, Barnes?” Barton asks at his shoulder.
“Better than okay,” he says.
Barton narrows his eyes, nods his head toward the sofa, where Rogers sits with Esther.
“Dinner was great,” he says. “Made me think of a poem.”
Barnes knows how this goes.
“Doesn’t everything make you think of a poem?”
Barton laughs.
“Benefit of good taste, yeah. But watching you, today. Makes me want to paraphrase Rilke. ‘All this is mission’,” he says.
Barnes looks at the people gathered in this space that all of him knows is home, each of them critical to his chosen mission – living a good human life. People who will stand with him, even when that mission is tough.
Of course, the place where his eyes come to rest is on Steve.
That will never change.
He feels the new smile that surprises everyone since his injury bloom across his face. He takes advantage of the day, the feeling, and puts his arm across Barton’s shoulders.
“Yeah,” he says.
“All this. Confirm. All of it.”