A/N: I'M ALIVE! Yeah, so, no promises here because life casually decided to hit me like a freight train—all good things, I assure you, new responsibilities and stuff—but it's taking priority over writing for fun. However, who knows? Now that I've got the ball rolling, I might keep it up. We shall see.

I distinctly remember that the reason I wrote this was because after seeing the Helicarrier battle in CA:TWS for the second time, I needed to see Bucky and Steve wrestling for fun. Also, hey! Sam's POV!

Thursdays

Avengers' Tower.

Avengers'. Tower.

Sam Wilson succeeded in getting comfy in the plush leather of a common-floor couch and tried to figure out how he was sitting by himself on a Thursday morning, drinking his coffee and reading a classic on his Kindle, in Avengers' Tower.

Granted, meeting Captain America on a run was one thing. Flying and fighting with him was another. Being the go-to guy for panic attacks and breakdowns in the first few weeks of an ex-brainwashed super soldier's recovery was a whole other ballgame—and probably another sport—but still, the most he did was take phone calls and visit a dinky little apartment when a couple of living legends needed a hand.

(Still a little mind-boggled that they needed his help, too. It was kinda funny and a lot more humbling.)

But sitting in Avengers' Tower—surrounded by ridiculous luxury (but in tasteful scarcity; Tony Stark was no slob), surrounded by superheroes, and at any given time expecting the elevator door to open and an Asgardian god or whatever to walk in—

Yeah. A little mind-blowing, to say the least.

But other than that, he was having a normal Thursday; as normal a Thursday as you could get before the usual menagerie came in. Part of Sam appreciated Steve's eternal invitation to hang out at the Tower whenever he liked, but there was a part of him well aware that Steve liked having Sam around as a fail-safe for a certain mutual friend of theirs.

Barnes. Who knew how the heck he'd adjusted to a place like this. Sam had heard that there were Nerf guns involved, and right as soon as he heard it, he knew better than to pry too deep.

But anyway, Sam himself was partially normal, while Barnes—Bucky—was either extremely docile or wound up like a spring. Usually both at the same time. If this building was a bit overwhelming for Sam, how must it have been for a guy like Barnes?

Ah, well. Sam figured he shouldn't worry so much. After all, Bucky was doing fine. Almost seemed looser now that he had the chance to be around more than two people on a daily basis. Between the quiet (and infallibly useful) contributions to open discussions, the occasional first move to start a conversation, and those blink-and-you'll-miss-it shy smiles, Bucky was already showing a whole lotta promise as far as recovery went.

Nah, scratch that. He was doing fantastic. 70 years of brainwashing and horrible memories were no small hurdle to overcome, and Barnes was plugging on at a remarkable rate. Sam could only figure that the super-serum gave a guy immense mental strength and healing factor, along with everything else.

Still, there were times that all that buildup of mental tension cracked and needed an outlet. If they were unlucky, it was a nightmare and a night's loss of sleep. (If they were supremely unlucky, it was a nightmare combined with a flashback and a regression and probably a week's loss of sleep.) But if they were lucky, it just poked its head out and disappeared after causing a little minor disturbance.

Which is why Sam was enjoying his coffee by himself before his quiet could be sullied. As happened pretty often.

Sam hardly heard the doors open before Bucky Barnes burst out of the elevator like there were hounds on his heels, tore through the common room and over the glass coffee table, scrambled over a couch, and dropped down behind it out of Sam's sight.

Well, there went the quiet.

"Wilson!" hissed Bucky, poking his head above—and then, when that left him too exposed, around—the side of the couch. "Wilson, ya gotta help me."

Sam raised an eyebrow. That accent was telling; Bucky's Brooklyn tones didn't come out unless he was feeling particularly relaxed, wrapped up in the rare good flashback, or—rebellious. Ah, that was it. He decided to play along.

"Oh, no," Sam answered, standing up off of the couch with his coffee and Kindle in hand. "I'm not getting involved in—" He gestured vaguely in Bucky's direction with his mug. "—whatever it is that's going on."

He'd already heard the heavy footsteps on the staircase down the hall. Bucky must have heard them too, because he somersaulted behind a different couch.

The big frame of Steve Rogers burst into the hall and charged in towards the common room, looking like he'd started running almost straight out of the shower. Rogers had a towel on his neck, flecks of water on his shirt, and—

"You can't hide forever, Buck," Steve called out, striding into the room with a posture like an angry war charger.

—pink hair?

Sam pressed his lips together tightly and did not, did not laugh aloud at Steve's short, normally blonde, but now very bright pink hair. The dye was smudged onto his forehead and ears in what looked like streaked fingerprints, too.

Barnes had done a fine job, whatever it was he did.

What the heck. Sam couldn't resist making more trouble.

" 'S actually a good color for you, Rogers," he jabbed with a grin.

Steve shot him a glare, but Sam could see the thinly veiled outright laughter. "Oh, you're next," growled Steve. "Where is he?"

Sam turned to the couch behind which Bucky had hidden and was surprised to see a pair of piercing eyes watching them over the backrest.

The dark eyebrows pinched downwards. "You gave it away," muttered Bucky.

Steve crossed the room in two flying bounds, headed straight for Bucky. At the same time, Barnes leaped out of the way, leaving Steve to crash into the couch with a yell and send it toppling backwards.

Sam just bit back more laughter until his coffee shook in the mug and his stomach hurt. Steve sprawled on the backrest, which was now on the floor. Bucky stood a yard off with just a hint of feral pride in his eye.

"Ha. Yeah, real funny," Steve muttered under a grin as he rolled to his feet. Then, in a human blur he launched himself from the cushions with a growl and tackled Bucky across two yards of floor and into the other couch.

The thud of two super solders' bodies, laughter (Steve's, of course, because Bucky never laughed), and sounds of a scuffle ensued, during which Sam composed himself and, with his best attempt at a straight face, took his coffee to the bar counter.

"Ow, Buck, your elbow's in my stomach," groused Steve.

"I know," Bucky's quiet voice returned. "Get off."

"You gonna make me?"

Sam had acquired a quiet seat on the bar stools, and he turned to see Bucky seize Rogers by the sides of his collar and give an open-mouthed hiss before dragging them both to the floor with a thud. Then Steve had Bucky in an arm-hold, and then Bucky had Steve in an almost choke-hold but not quite, and Sam sipped his coffee.

Movement and a shock of ginger red caught Sam's eye. Natasha sauntered into the room before the elevator doors shut behind her.

The assassin caught the scene before her and stood for a moment, one eyebrow raised. "Pink?" she asked no one in particular, but Sam was closest.

"Yup." He took a sip of his coffee.

She crossed her arms and relaxed her weight onto one leg. "Thus, the puppies are fighting," she observed.

Sam did not succeed in swallowing and ended up with an aborted attempt to send coffee up his nose.

Steve was on his back and released Bucky from a particularly stiff arm-hold, letting Bucky collapse onto him so the two were chest to chest. "Heard that, Romanoff," shot back Steve, looking at her upside-down. His still very pink hair was in the rug.

"I know you did," she returned.

Bucky brought his head up suddenly. "Bark," he deadpanned, glaring at Natasha.

Natasha returned the Eyebrow. If Sam wasn't coughing yet, he was now. Steve looked almost as flabbergasted as Sam felt—seriously, a joke? Did the Winter Soldier just make a joke?

And then, Steve absolutely lost it.

Bucky's eager, almost hungry expression at the sound of his friend's laughter was simultaneously the most beautiful and gut-wrenching thing Sam had seen in a whole lifetime of Thursdays.

Seriously, did Bucky even remember making Steve laugh before? Had he done it at all in the time since D.C.? If so, Sam had never seen it.

Could he only remember when he used to made his best friend crack up—what, seventy some odd years ago—and had no idea how to make it happen again? Sam almost didn't want to think about that one.

And it got worse. Or better.

As Barnes watched Steve's face, he started to make a tiny, coughing sort of sound, and then his whole face scrunched up and he chuckled, and then he was laughing desperately like his lungs didn't know what they were doing, and his whole body shook in bursts with the effort it took. Steve redoubled his laughter and looked like he'd go red in the face.

Sam had a stupid grin stretching from Manhattan all the way to L.A. Natasha was the most stoic person in the room, and even she had a twinkle in her eye.

Steve grabbed Bucky in both arms and rolled over—but it wasn't any wrestling hold, just a hug. The two super soldiers just kept on laughing.

"Don'cha think it's a good color, though?" Sam asked Natasha. He was still bent on trouble and couldn't keep a grin off his face.

"Can it, Wilson," Steve demanded playfully as Natasha broke a smile. Steve almost had as much color in his face as in his hair. Then seized with another fit, he leaned back until the pink squashed into the rug again. "Aw, I don't care," he croaked through a grin. "I can't even be mad."

"It is a good color, though," muttered Bucky, his face still partially buried in Steve's tight hug.

"See?" insisted Sam, waving at Bucky. "Even he agrees with me!"

"That's saying something," deadpanned Natasha, "because you two don't agree on anything. Ever."

Bucky did not grin, but the crinkles around his eyes did it for him. Then he lifted his head, stoic again, and quietly asked Steve. "Do I still get my Thursday coffee, or...?"

"No!" snapped Steve. Bucky's eyes shot wide until the whites were visible, and then he did the cough-and-laugh thing and collapsed onto Steve's arm in mirth.

Steve groaned and scrubbed his face, still smiling. "Buck, I love you and forgive you, but I am not buying you coffee while my hair is pink! So, if you're gonna pull somethin' like this, you brought it on yourself, pal..." And any further statement dissolved in laughter.

Sam made a face that counted as a shrug and polished off the last sip in his mug. "Entry number 1,479 in the List of Things I Never Thought I'd Hear Cap say," he muttered. A sudden thought struck him and he sat up to be heard better. "How'd you get it like that anyway?" he half-shouted to Barnes.

Bucky's chuckles dissolved into something very close to a grin, and he sank close to Steve as if hoping not to be seen. "Shampoo," he answered cryptically.

"You what?" exclaimed Steve. And then, Bucky was victim to a killer noogie.

Natasha, at this point, was nursing a cup of hot water and bounced a teabag lightly in the cup by its string. "So, how's your Thursday been so far, Wilson?" she asked, and leaned her elbows on the bar counter.

"Just fine," Sam answered with a grin, and he was perfectly honest. "So far, it's been just fine."

the end

A/N: There are so many sentences here that start with conjunctions. Aaaahhhh. Sorry.

Reviews are happy weekday mornings.