Steve watched Bucky scrub both hands through his hair. Being mussed only made the new cut more attractive. Steve looked away and drank his coffee.

"I don't know," Bucky said. "When you did this Monday night, I didn't have time to think about it, much less really look at it. I went from this to the goldfish bowl." He sighed. "I don't want to be blond."

"Yeah, well, I don't like it," Tony muttered. Pepper patted his hand.

"It's a disguise," Clint pointed out reasonably. "And blond was the only real option. A different shade of brown wouldn't have been enough. Black might've been if I'd done something else too, like a perm."

Bucky grimaced.

Clint grinned. "I joke about taking Natasha's red hair dye but it would have been too noticeable anyway. Your face turns heads as it is. Not only was it the best option for making a visible change to your looks but it makes you just another blond in our group, and you'll be standing next to Steve."

"That alone gives you cover," Natasha said. "People will say, 'you know, one of those good looking blond guys' and no one will know who they mean."

Steve, Pepper, Jemma and Phil all chuckled.

Natasha eyed the newly blond supersoldier. "At least you don't look like Yakov."

He thought about that. "I don't, do I? At least that's something."

"At least." She nodded.

"You look kind of Swiss with the golden hair," Jemma said.

"Like you belong on a box of hot chocolate," Natasha said.

Bucky rolled his eyes.

Clint snorted. "Yeah, that's exactly the look I was going for—Hummel meets Madison Avenue."

"If that's the look you were going for," Phil said dryly, "you succeeded."

Clint cuffed his shoulder. "Not you, too."

Phil raised his eyebrows.

Bucky ate some of his eggs. "The best thing about the trip is that I won't have to get in the pressure chamber Friday night."

"You aren't looking forward to seeing your grave?" Fitz asked.

Bucky shook his head. "That'll just be weird."

Clint stood. "C'mon, Phil. Let's finish packing."

Steve looked up from his coffee. "That's right, you two are leaving today."

"Right after lunch," Phil said.

###

Clint dropped his black soft-sided suitcase on the striped blue and off-white bedspread. He stretched before unpacking.

Phil eyed his pragmatic gray suit bag. "I over packed."

Clint shrugged. "You packed for three trips."

"Three?"

"This one, going to visit graves Friday, and seeing your family."

"Yeah." Phil unpacked. "I brought different kinds of clothes for each of those. Still it's only four days."

Clint stretched some more. "Feels like we spent four days in the car. I can't believe the traffic." He tipped over into a backbend. "It took us more than five hours to get here and then we stopped for dinner so it was like yesterday that we left New York. Good thing we weren't headed into D.C. proper." He let himself collapse to the floor and sat up cross legged.

"That five hours included a stop." Phil spoke testily as he hung his suits up. "We changed drivers. Sure, the drive should have taken maybe three, three and a half hours—" His words died away when he looked over and saw Clint watching him.

Clint tilted his head. "You're nervous."

Phil sighed and finished unpacking. When the suitcases were stowed, Clint took his hand and tugged him toward the doors that led directly outside. "Let's take a walk."

"Okay," Phil said. "The forty five acres of gardens and trees are one of the attractions to this place."

They went up the stairs, walked past the Olympic size swimming pool and across an area of open lawn as Clint headed toward neat paths that disappeared into a wooded area. Phil barely registered the beauty of the summer blooms all around, hydrangeas, roses, wisteria, daylilies, and a multitude of annuals. It was almost eight o'clock but there was plenty of daylight left.

"Makes sense that you'd be nervous," Clint said.

"I am not nervous." Hearing the persisting snap in his own voice, Phil winced.

Clint snorted.

"Maybe anxious," Phil conceded.

"Okay." Clint glanced at him. Phil was aggravated by the slight amused smile on Clint's face. "Makes sense that you're anxious," Clint continued. "You've never been to your grave and you haven't seen your family in three years."

"Hmm." Phil wasn't sure whether he'd just made a sound of acquiescence or disagreement.

They slipped into the cool of the trees along a wide clear path.

"And you're sharing a room with me without having an office nearby to escape to."

Phil stopped. "You make it sound like I want to get away from you."

"Sometimes you do." Clint stroked his hand down Phil's indigo and silver silk tie. "Sometimes you need time to yourself." Clint glanced up from the tie and looked into Phil's eyes. "It's okay that you do."

Clint curled his fingers around Phil's upper arm. He turned them then walked down a narrower woodland trail. "Did you notice that," Clint said, "not only is there a sitting area in our incredibly fancy suite, but there's a daybed in the sitting area and a desk. You can get away to yourself, just not very far. You can also go out to the very private patio, or the grounds, or into the common areas of the hotel."

"You've...really thought about this."

"I always realized it, but I've had to think about it more over the past couple of months because we've never"—Clint took a breath—"spent quite so much time together before."

Phil walked beside Clint in silence before answering. "It's starting to seem strange that we didn't."

Clint stopped and looked at him.

"I know it was me." Phil slid his fingers along Clint's jaw then on around to the back of his neck and down into the top of his Tshirt until his fingers came to rest on the top of Clint's back. "I'm starting to not understand myself."

Clint curled his hands around Phil's shoulders. "Does that make it scary that a lot of the time I understand you?"

Phil nodded.

Clint leaned in and kissed him, a patient press of slightly parted lips, and waited for Phil to respond. Phil hesitated, but the bend in the trail through the twilight woods felt peaceful and private, and Clint felt solid and right. He coaxed Clint closer, until they were sandwiched together, clothes compressed into the thinnest possible barrier between them. His tongue gained entry to Clint's pliant mouth and then retreated as Clint kissed him deeply in return. This was all Phil wanted to do, stand here in the warm evening and kiss the lover he thought he'd lost. If they stayed here half the night, tasting and teasing, he was fine with that.

Ten minutes into the torrid kiss, Phil heard a footfall on the path. He stepped away as he ended the kiss and looked up to see an elegant silver-haired woman standing eight feet away. "Are you here to get married too?" she asked.

Phil shook his head.

"Tomorrow evening, my youngest son will marry his long time beau," she said. "I'm so glad they're finally able to, and I'm so looking forward to it. I suppose I'm being obsessive about it, checking out the bridge where they're going to say their vows."

"That's really sweet," Clint said. His hand fumbled forward, looking for Phil's. Phil folded his fingers around the archer's calloused hand.

"Your mother would do the same for you," she said.

Clint dropped his eyes to the ground. "She's long gone."

"She's watching you from somewhere," the woman said, "and she's happy for you. Mothers rejoice in their children being happy and in love."

Phil stepped to the edge of the graveled walkway and tugged Clint to the side with him. "We can let you by."

"Thank you." She smiled. "This is a romantic place," she said as she walked past.

"Yes," Phil said. "I suppose we're getting reacquainted." He blinked. What had made him say that?

Just three feet past them, the woman turned around. "Reacquainted?"

"We dated for a few years but then"—Phil hesitated—"we were separated by war." It was the most accurate brief statement he could think of.

"He died but was brought back." Clint spoke softly but Phil still flinched and the woman noticed. "The scars are daunting," Clint added.

"I imagine you think you mean the physical scars," she said kindly. "But the scars we don't see are worse. Even though it's hard, don't let those stop you. The things we fight for are usually more precious than those that come easily."

"We'll keep that in mind," Phil said.

"You're about the age of my oldest son," the woman said. "And I hear your hesitation and maybe a little fear, but what I see is two people in love. You need to let yourself see too."

She looked right at Phil. He felt his face burn.

"Thank you," Clint said.

She smiled, broad and warm, then turned and walked back toward the mansion.

Phil and Clint walked deeper into the woods until they came across a gurgling creek with a wide pale stone bridge arched over it.

"I suppose she meant here." Clint leaned his crossed arms on the railing. "Nice place for a ceremony."

Phil looked at the clear area near the bridge. "The guest list must be sort of small."

"Sounds cozy to me," Clint said. "And the sound of the water is soothing."

Anxiety spiked in Phil's chest. He stepped off the bridge. Clint leaned on the rail for another minute, eyes closed, apparently listening. He straightened up then walked toward Phil and looped their arms together. They headed back the way they'd come.

"Commitment phobe." Clint sounded amused.

"I''m—" Phil's words were cut off by Clint's hand over his mouth.

"Don't say it." Clint said. "Don't say you're sorry."

"But—"

"Just keep struggling with it. You're the one who kept the mother of the groom there longer, talking to us."

Phil sighed.

"Well, you did," Clint said.

"Yeah, I did." Phil ruminated over why but he couldn't figure it out.

"Did you notice," Clint said, "that the knobs for the double jacuzzi are little brass swan heads and the faucet is a big curved swan head and neck?"

"I did," Phil said. "The bathroom floor is heated too."

"I have never seen a fancier bathroom outside of HGTV," Clint said. "I could've sworn fixtures like that were myths,"

Phil laughed.

Darkness had settled by the time the got back to the gently lit open lawn. The pool was brightly lit and served as a kind of beacon back to the stairs and the private patio outside their room. The bubbling of the small fountain attached to the patio wall was reminiscent of the creek they'd come across.

Phil unlocked one of the French doors and they stepped into the sitting area of their suite. Phil relocked the door then automatically made a sweep, making sure the rooms were secure. He found himself standing in the middle of the sitting room feeling paralyzed by the weight of expectation.

Clint closed the curtains before turning out all of the lights but one in the sitting room. He came up behind Phil, put his arms around his waist, and leaned his head against his shoulder. Phil put his hands over Clint's. They stood without speaking for a moment. Then Clint took his hand and led him to the king size four poster bed. The bedroom was dimly illuminated by the light that spilled in through the open doorway from the one lit lamp.

"You're always the one who approaches," Phil said.

"Not always." Clint's motions were slow but deft as he opened the knot of the necktie. "I love this tie. The color looks great on you." He slid the slick silk out from under Phil's collar. "After S.H.I.E.L.D. fell, you called me. Twenty six times."

"I was afraid you'd died."

"I grieved your death." Clint methodically opened the buttons on Phil's shirt.

Phil cringed. Clint kissed him, open-mouthed, comforting but not lingering, the forward motion smooth and automatic. Clint stepped back then pushed Phil's jacket off his shoulders.

"You took the quinjet to come see me." Clint untucked Phil's shirt.

"But," Phil said as he helped Clint dispense with his shirt, "I never would've done what you did."

"What is that?" Clint got Phil to sit. He knelt to remove Phil's shoes.

"You kissed me." Phil sighed. Clint got his socks off. "Then you dragged me to bed." Phil stood and started to unbuckle his belt. Clint slapped his hands away and removed the belt. Phil raised his eyebrows and continued talking. "I wouldn't have done any of that. I would've come to see you and I would've been awkward and tried to hide our relationship, and if you'd let me get away with that, I'd probably have lef—"

Clint gave him a quick kiss which shut him up. "Good thing I'm affectionate then." Clint removed Phil's pants.

"It's more than that," Phil said as Clint got his boxers off. Clint opened the bed. Phil climbed in between the sheets. He said, "You embrace life, you reach out—uh—"

Phil went silent as he watched Clint undress. Clint climbed into the bed beside him. "You were saying?"

"You look amazing," Phil said.

"You do too." Clint squeezed his shoulder. "And that isn't what you were saying."

Phil pulled Clint close, close enough where he couldn't see Clint's face as he talked; he didn't think he could manage that. "I was saying," he murmured, "that you embrace life and reach out where I pull back. If you didn't do that, we'd never have had a relationship to begin with." He exhaled into Clint's hair. "And we would never have resumed it."

Clint's fingers tightened around Phil's arm. "Did you not want to?"

"I desperately wanted to." Phil tightened his arm around Clint's waist. "I must've been hoping you would—if it even was possible. So I showed up in person. I mean, you shocked me, revealing our relationship the way you did. But, deep down, I knew—you're the one that reaches out. You reach out to life with both hands." He sighed. "You put me to shame."

"No," Clint said. "It's okay for you to be cautious."

"That doesn't begin to cover it." Phil was silent for a moment. "I was so wrong." He tipped Clint's face up. "I did you wrong."

"You did," Clint agreed. He looked into Phil's eyes and Phil looked back.

"I don't know what I was thinking," Phil said. "You couldn't reach out when you didn't know there was anything to reach out to."

"That's part of why I was so upset," Clint said. "I was given no choices. If I'd known anything, been given any information at all, I'd have done something."

"I know. You're a doer. You kind of live by the Nike motto." Phil smiled briefly. "I see it every day."

Clint nodded. "Speaking of doing things"—he kissed Phil's jaw—"there's something I need to finish before going to your grave."

"Oh?"

"I need to do a complete inventory."

Phil was stumped, and he couldn't figure out why this was being brought up now. "Of what?"

"You." Clint grinned. "I've been taking inventory little by little all these weeks. I couldn't finish because I couldn't deal with your scars. Didn't realize that until after the night where I finally faced your scars and what they mean."

"Okay," Phil said. "Inventory."

"I need to relearn you." Clint ran his fingers through Phil's hair. "To imprint you as you are now." He traced fingertips over Phil's ears which made him shiver. "I need to know, really know, that you are really here." Clint slid two fingers from each hand down the line of Phil's jaw until they met at his chin. "Warm." He traced his fingers over Phil's face. "Alive." He kissed Phil's eyelids and the tip of his nose. "Damaged but whole." He felt and kissed his way down Phil's neck.

"And this." Clint ran one finger over the scars on Phil's chest. "No one could have survived this." He sat up and pressed his fingers firmly into the scars, shifting his hands, probing deeply, making a tactile catalog of deeper damage, tight scarred muscles and chipped bones. "And you didn't." He kissed the scars, tracing each one with his tongue from top to bottom. "Yet somehow," Clint whispered the hot words in a stream through Phil's chest hair and into his skin, "here you are."

"Like some kind of forbidden magic"—Clint traced fingers over Phil's collarbones then shoulders—"that no one should ever use much less endure." He felt all along Phil's arms and hands, one at a time. "I'm like that fella in Poe's poem pondering over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore." Clint kissed each fingertip.

"You mean The Raven?" Phil gasped out. Because, while Clint was neither hurrying nor going particularly slowly, and so far there had been no genital involvement, the exploration was sensuous. The focused loving attention sensitized his nerves, made him anticipate and react to every contact no matter how glancing or solid. The eloquence didn't hurt either.

"Yes. The Raven." Clint's fingers trailed along each of Phil's ribs one by one and he writhed from being touched, even firmly, in ticklish spots. "If it makes me damned that I'm glad to have you back no matter how dark and ugly the process, then I am damned." His hands slid and pressed over Phil's solar plexus and abdomen. "And if you suffered unspeakably in the arcane and evil process of being brought back to life, then I can't help but accept your suffering."

This was the only place where Phil stopped him. He pulled Clint up and kissed him. Clint's breath hitched and Phil kissed him until his breathing evened out. "Getting you back," Phil whispered, "is what finally made the suffering worth it. I'd do it again if it was the only way to find my way back to you."

"It was the only way," Clint breathed. "You have to be alive to make anything else possible. The good, the bad, the terrible, the wonderful, the enduring, the fighting, the loving, it all starts with you being alive."

Phil shuddered at the words. Clint kissed him before continuing his determined exploration.

Clint spent the better part of an hour finishing his inventory of Phil, from head to toe down the front, then from toe to head up the back. Much of it proceeded without talking until Clint got to the scars on Phil's back, the ones that created a matched set with the ones on his chest.

"I thought you were never going to accept those," Phil said.

"I don't." Clint's fingers continued probing the scars. "I just realize they're sort of a necessary evil. They can't be helped." He trailed a line of kisses down the longest scar. "They're a part of you whether I like them or not." He kissed the next scar over. "Just like you being traumatized, and suffering, and shocked, and broken all couldn't be helped." He kissed another scar, then ran his hands over Phil's shoulder blades. "Thinking about it that way made me realize that you couldn't help how you were. If you were too much of a mess to break out of your mental prison and call your family, or me, then you just were." He caressed the top of Phil's back. "You were doing the best you could, and you didn't mean to hurt yourself or us. It just happened. The price is high and I may never stop counting the cost, but I'm willing to pay it. Right or wrong, I'm willing for you to pay it too."

"Because, damn it, I want you back." Clint kissed the nape of Phil's neck, his lips were tender even though his words were fierce. "I want you back."

Phil turned and tumbled the younger man onto the bed. Surprise showed in Clint's eyes just for a moment. Then he let Phil engulf him in a long ardent kiss, and then in so much more.

They panted like long distance runners as they held each other. The bonelessness and the afterglow lingered; recovery was slow. Phil felt broken open, insides exposed and raw and laid out for anyone to examine.

Phil combed his fingers through Clint's hair. "I wasn't really back at first," he whispered. "Wasn't all there."

"You were still pretty disconnected." Clint kissed his neck. "It was upsetting."

"The thing I wanted most in the world was you." Phil's eyes burned. "I had you back and could hardly believe it. I was so scared of losing you again, I almost ruined it." Heat streaked down his cheek. A moment passed before he registered it as a tear.

"I wasn't much better." Clint exhaled. "I was angry and frustrated and resistant to getting help."

Phil choked, then he relaxed into it and let himself cry. It was fine, mere tremors of sorrow. He felt safe and accepted in Clint's arms. "I was wrong," he gasped out. "I'm so sorry."

"Shh," Clint soothed. "It's all right, babe." Then he added in a whisper. "We're all right."

It was over in five minutes. Phil felt hollowed out but clear, as though something that had been clogging him up had gotten washed away.

"We need to get cleaned up," Phil said.

"There's a big jacuzzi in there with our name on it," Clint said.

"You just want to play with the brass swans."

"Yup. And it's more fun if I have someone else to play with."

Phil thought about it. "No splashing."

"I don't promise." Clint got out of bed. Phil laughed and let himself be tugged to his feet.

They managed to be asleep by midnight, pajama clad and curled up together face to face, arms around each other and legs threaded together. They never slept this way but it was the only way they could bear to be.

When Phil woke up in the morning, he was still face to face with Clint but less tangled together. He slipped out of bed. A few minutes later, he located the coffee maker in the sitting room. Fifteen minutes after that, he was kissing Clint into wakefulness.

Half cross-eyed, the archer glanced at the clock and groaned. "Eight? Really? They aren't going to set up room service breakfast for another hour."

"I made coffee." Phil muttered against Clint's hair. "I enjoy it more when I can drink some of yours."

Clint buried his face in a pillow. Phil shrugged, made himself a mug of coffee, then went out to the patio. Ten minutes later, Clint came out in his purple argyle pajamas. He handed Phil his mug of coffee, sat in the nearest metal patio chair, then put his bare feet in Phil's lap. Phil took a sip of Clint's coffee before handing it to him.

Phil studied the bleary-eyed archer with his unkempt blond hair sticking out at all angles. Clint took a sip of his sweet coffee then looked up into Phil's eyes.

Clint raised his eyebrows. "Why are you grinning?"

"Oh." Phil raised his mug. "Just thinking you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

Clint tipped his head back and laughed. He scrubbed a hand through his hair to no avail. "Thing is, you mean that."

"It's true," Phil said.

Clint smiled at him. "How about you make up for waking me up so early by spending the day in bed with me?"

Phil looked at the man that he loved, vibrant in the morning light, felt the miracle of being with him in that moment despite all they had been through, and did the only thing he could. He grinned and said, "Sounds fair."

###

Bucky had pouted until he'd gotten his way. He wasn't even a little bit ashamed of that. Truth be told, he might be a little bit proud. He was certainly pleased with himself. Pepper was the one who'd finally given in. Natasha had not just rolled her eyes, she'd actually elbowed Pepper and hissed, "You're spoiling him."

"He's not a small child," Pepper had said.

Natasha'd snorted. "Right now he's acting like one."

So Bucky's grin was extra big when he got into the big black SUV. He proudly sat next to the window. Arguments had been made that, due to security concerns, he should sit in the middle of the middle seat. And he'd sulked. The windows were blacked out anyway, so how much difference could it make?

He leaned against the window and finally pressed his nose against the glass, which made Tony huff. "Small child? He's like a dog!"

Bucky didn't even react. He wouldn't have minded being a big puppy right then and having someone open the window so he could stick his head out and feel the wind rush through his fur. He was tempted to open the window and stick his head out anyway, feel the wind in his hair. If he did that, he'd almost certainly be relegated to the middle seat. He couldn't do it in any case. The childproofing mechanisms had been engaged and the lock and window controller didn't work on his side.

Yeah, he'd checked.

So, here they were, Tony and Pepper in the first row of leather seats behind Happy, Bucky and Steve in the next set of seats, and Natasha sprawled in the very back seat by herself. No one was riding shotgun because Tony had turned away Pepper's suggestion of taking a bodyguard. "Because Avengers," he'd said and pointed to himself, Steve, and Natasha.

Bucky fingered the pressure chamber controller in his lap.

"I can't believe you brought that," Steve said.

"Seems harmless," Natasha said. "If he gets bored, he can play games on it."

Bucky kept looking out the window. He'd been watching the sights for an hour already as they drove, getting through the city faster than he expected. It wasn't until Tony tapped on the front seat and said, "Hey Happy, we to New Brunswick yet?" that the obvious made an impression on Bucky.

"You have a driver?" he said.

"Yeah." Tony eyed him. "He drove the limo when we went to the theatre."

Bucky waved the comment away with a dismissive gesture. That had been different—an event—and it had been a limo. Limo's always had drivers. But family cars, even big nice family cars, didn't.

"You really are rich," Bucky said, suddenly in awe. He knew Tony was wealthy. It was all around him every day. But it came across as normal, everyone accepted it, and it just hadn't jumped out.

"Well yeah." Tony laughed. "On the Forbes list and everything."

"His Dad started the family fortune," Pepper said, "but Tony consolidated it and increased it exponentially."

Bucky studied Tony's face. His mother must have been pretty because there was a softness and beauty to the younger Stark that his father never had. "Howard would have been proud of you," Bucky said.

Tony's face went dark with a scowl and a rush of blood. He opened his mouth but Bucky cut him off before he could get a word out. "Don't start with me," the sergeant growled. "Howard was imperfect, as we all are. I don't doubt you have reasons for your feelings but he was your father and I knew him. I think you need to know it, he would have been proud of you. He would have been proud that for some of the things he valued most—your smarts, inventiveness, business skills, your relationship with Pepper—you outdid him. Hell"—Bucky leaned forward and tapped a finger on the arc reactor through Tony's Tshirt; Tony grabbed his wrist—"he'd have really been impressed by the nerve that led to that."

Bucky was buoyed up by the impressed approving look Steve gave him. It didn't hurt that Pepper had turned her head so she could smile and Tony couldn't see it as she looked out the window.

"I don't want to hear it," Tony snapped.

"You need to," Bucky snapped back.

"What gives you the right?"

"I knew your father." Bucky's voice was hard and cold. "We knew each other during wartime. War tends to bring people closer faster. I figure I'm about thirty three in terms of years of conscious breathing experience, but I'm also ninety-six. And I was a Stasi or Soviet or other inhuman assassin for a lot of those conscious years. Assassin years are like dog years, they age you faster than regular years. By that reckoning I'm somewhere in my late sixties. By more than one way of counting, I'm in your father's generation."

"Huh," Natasha mused. "By that reckoning, I'm in my eighties. At least."

Straining against the pull of the seat belt, Bucky leaned forward until his face was mere inches from Tony's. Tony glared. Bucky spoke. "Howard would be proud of you."

"Natasha," Tony snarled. "You have permission to kill him."

Natasha curled up, looking at her phone. "You're on your own with this fight, Stark."

"Traitor," Tony grumbled.

Natasha raised an eyebrow without looking away from her phone. "Quite a few Russians have said so."

"It's not true." Steve turned to look at her. "You know it's not true."

She shrugged but didn't look up.

Bucky watched the redhead. He recognized the shutting out behavior. He did it too. He leaned against the back of the seat. "C'mere a minute."

She glanced at him then went back to her game.

"Seriously," he said. "Sit up."

Natasha frowned but straightened up. He reached over the back of his seat and clasped her chin in his right hand. She jerked away but he held tight. He studied her features.

"Bet you'd be pretty with your natural brown hair," Bucky said. "Everyone sees that you're beautiful with red hair, and you demonstrated that you're an attractive blond."

Tony made a choking sound. Steve was uneasy as he looked from Natasha to Bucky and back.

Natasha glared at Bucky who continued talking. "Your coloring, and your features." He tilted her face. "They're in just the right zone for maximum flexibility, right down to the green eyes with hazel specks. That' s what made you the Black Widow isn't it? You can look different every time. You'd even get described with different eye colors, I bet. And you're beautiful but still approachable. The perfect bait."

She did jerk away then. "You have no business," she spat, "assessing me now, Yakov."

"Yakov? No." He shook his head. "That was James Barnes assessing you. I've always had an appreciation for pretty people. I couldn't draw them like he can"—he indicated Steve—"but I could take their measure."

She glared daggers at him. "No matter who you are, stop."

"I'm Bucky Barnes. Those other identities are part of me but are not me. Just like Natalia and Sasha and all the things you were made to be are part of you"—he pointed at her and then his voice intensified—"but they are not you!"

Her eyes widened in surprise. She looked shattered for a split second before the default mask shuttered her expression again.

Steve's head snapped around to Bucky. "What the hell are you doing?"

Bucky shoved Steve's shoulder just firmly enough to half push him out of his seat. Luckily Steve understood the gesture. He unbuckled his seat belt and went around to Natasha. He put his arms around her. She went stiff then leaned against him.

Bucky stared out of the window he'd fought so hard to sit next to, barely registering that they were between cities at the moment. What was he doing? Returning a favor, he thought. And he shouldn't have to apologize for it. He didn't know how to make himself understood.

What weighed on him more was what Steve was doing. In his peripheral vision, Bucky saw that Steve was stroking Natasha's hair. Tony seemed confident about it when he ordered Steve and Natasha to kiss, as he had at the theatre. The photos had been convincing and there were quite a few of them.

What were they to each other? They said friends. Maybe they used to be more and were still friendly. Bucky leaned his forehead against the window and resolutely stared. None of his business. Whatever it was.

Happy announced, "We're in Trenton, Mr. Stark."

"Oh thank God," Pepper said. "I think we all need a pit stop."

"I need a drink," Tony muttered.

"Diet soda," Pepper said.

They glared at each other for a moment before Tony looked away. Pepper had clearly won their wordless argument.


A/N: So, I have to write a term paper for a film history class but I'm going to get to write it on Iron Man and the MCU. I am very excited and felt the need to share. :)