Many thanks go to the ever patient Aria_Lerendeair, who gave meaning to the paintings.
Natasha
Occasionally, Natasha goes to art shows or galleries. She doesn't care about the artists, or even the art, really. Sometimes she just needs to get out of her head a little and the easiest way to do that is to get inside someone else's. This is how she finds herself at an art show for some or other new artist, there are plenty to spare in New York, on a Friday night.
The room is sparsely populated, a good crowd, but not enough to make her feel uncomfortable. She wonders slowly over to the first painting. It's entitled 'self-portrait'. It's of a small, almost sickly figure looking into a convex mirror. The features are indistinct and upside down, but it's the background that captures her attention. Behind the figure is an expanse of ice. Beneath the frozen surface is the faintest outline of people. Corpses. Despite herself, she thinks of Steve.
She doesn't think too deeply on it when she moves to 'Blacksmith' – a figure bent over an anvil, crafting the beginnings of something. She's not sure what. The embers in the furnace glow red and gold.
She quite likes 'Gladiolus'. The petals of the flowers gleam the rust-red colour of her hair and the long, thin, blade-like leaves are tipped in red. Even the crisp blue background reminds her of the colour of cold, winter skies back in Russia. It is both comforting and uncomfortable. She quickly moves on to the next.
'Exile' is simply an empty throne. Shadows play across the background in a manner that makes it confusing to determine where the light source is located. Across the backrest, a swathe of red material is haphazardly draped, stark against the muted surroundings. She smiles a little.
'Bird's eye' is a view of New York. It's from an aerial perspective, but not one with which she's familiar. She thinks it might be the Empire State Building, but the skyline in the distance is sparsely populated by buildings and the architecture all looks old-fashioned. It feels removed, in time and space, distanced and lonely.
The final painting on this side of the room is 'Schism'. It's all bleak blacks and whites and greys. A small, pale figure dwarfed by a dark mass. The shadow leans over the man and it's a threat and protection all at once. A shiver runs down her spine before she can control the reaction. It's Bruce and the Hulk. It's how he chased her and saved Stark.
She looks around the gallery, really looks at all the paintings, as a whole. Instead of some paintings that individually remind her of a little of her team members, it feels like the entire team is stripped bare to their exposed nerves and displayed on these walls.
There's more. A woman dancing alone. An empty room with a single suitcase, packed, resting neatly by the door. Images that remind her at once of bombsites and the aftermath of the Chitauri.
A flash of anger and humiliation shoots through her. They have no right. No right at all to expose her team like this. She scans the room, hand resting on her hip, fingers pressing into the handle of a concealed knife. Finally, she spots a tall figure, impressively hunched to look inconspicuous, in the corner of the room. Her eyes widen.
"What the hell is going on, Rogers?" she demands, trying to keep her voice level as she pulls him further away from the gathering, deeper into the shadows. He goes with her, unresisting.
"Oh, uh, Natasha," he stutters, not quite meeting her eyes, but not cowed into looking away. "I didn't know you would be here."
"Why are our lives strewn all over these walls?"
"I... that's not... it's not our lives exactly."
"Then whose?"
"Mine."
That stops her short for a moment. His? But there's Tony, the blacksmith; Thor, the exiled prince; Bruce's dual struggle, Clint's distance in all ways, Steve's loss, her... She must be 'Gladiolus'. She's not sure how she feels about that. She not a flower. She's not delicate. Steve follows her gaze and shuffles his feet, uncomfortable.
"It's called the sword lily. It means strength and moral integrity."
"Oh," she says, because she's not sure how to react to that. "If this isn't our lives then what is it?" Steve folds his arms, a defensive move, but she's interrogated more men than she can count and she knows Steve will answer. It doesn't matter if he answers because he defers to women or because he feels obligated to a teammate.
"It's how I see you, what you all mean to me." He looks deeply uncomfortable. "No one was supposed to know. It's not even my name on the artwork." She thinks she recalls something about 'Barnes' being the artist, so she's willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. "I can get them to take down the whole thing," he offers. She hates how earnest he can be. She hates that she knows he really would do it, that he's not just offering to appease her.
"It's fine," she tells him, resting a hand on his tense forearm. "They're really are very good," she concedes. "People should see them."
"Thanks," Steve says, tension leeching out of him. He smiles at her, pleased and grateful. She still buys 'Gladiolus' and 'Bird's eye', and considers giving one to Clint.