the scarf is referring to the sentimental value shared by mikasa (from 'attack on titan') and mako (legend of korra). this happens in between day four: last call and day four: hurricane.

...

day five; the first snow/snowfall.

The first snow drops, and she wakes up.

Finally.

(Finally.)

There's bruises on her face, blue and healing, and he ponders on the moment where he's seen her look better. (Really, he thinks, anything is better than having her strapped to a hospital bed, body folded out of clean-cut flesh and piercingly broken bones.) Her last words to him still haunts him, even when her silver watch steal glances; even when his entire being vibrates on the fact she's still healthily breathing — I'm glad it's my last call, I'm glad you're alive — but she doesn't say a word. A curt nod when it's needed, a shake of the head when she disagrees. But that's it.

It's kind of worrying.

(She looks at him like she's going to murder him though, to which he's torn on deciding if it's a really good thing —it means she's alertly alive enough to resent him— or a bad thing. —he really doesn't want her to resent him— Steve isn't sure.)

But he stays when he could, help out where's necessary. Miss Pepper's taking extreme care of her, which is a relief, and the Avengers drop in to watch out. She doesn't say her thanks, they don't say you're welcome. That's not how it works. But she lets Natasha cuddles up next to her on bed and she doesn't comment when Clint switches the channels on the television twenty times over and over again until he's find a channel he's comfortable with, and she definitely does not fuss over when he allows himself to sit by the chair in the corner of her room and just read.

(He likes reading. It reminds him back in the days where he actually kind of feels superior to Bucky, not wholly in a bad way, since, well, Bucky can't read back then. It's the only thing in Steve's mind that Bucky can't really do.)

It's when the snow thickens outside that she starts talking. It starts when Pepper visits, Tony towing behind, readying a trip to Tennessee. ("Some business. Christmas drop-off. Let's just say I'm approaching Santa Claus Tony-slash-Iron Man style; not, of course, to sound like a brag, although free to note that I am bragging.") Then Happy comes by to drop in any security intel of what's happened since they've been out, and JARVIS eventually makes an appearance through the tablet Natasha and Clint've packed along in her bag.

Going through the night is when she actually says something to him. Directly. "You're cold."

He looks up from his book naturally — Lies My Teacher Told Me — and hesitates. "No, I'm good." He tells, because it may be cold, but it's not anything he can't handle. He doesn't point out that she's speaking to him, although he's really, really glad that she is, but gestures to the full jug instead. "Are you thirsty? Would you like some water?"

"No," she whispers it out, looks down somewhere far away, and then: "My back hurts. Everything hurts."

"Yes. Pietro manages to get you of there in time. You're lucky." Her glare doesn't entirely terrify him when he knows she's been told of that countless of times, marching up and pouring the water down a glass anyway. "I was so worried about you."

Her appearance suggests that she's shrugging, but he can't tell. "You care, it happens."

His grip on the glass tightens. Just a bit. "Am I not supposed to?"

"I never said that," she says out lamely, tone stoic, as though his slip-up on the tone comes nowhere near her acknowledgement. It makes him agitated, her like this, acting as though everything is pure facts and not more to it.

"You should drink up anyway," he ducks his head down and offers the glass to her; she accepts, nodding.

She doesn't say her thanks, he doesn't say you're welcome.

(It's how it has always been.)

"You died," he whispers again when she hands back the near empty glass, and he stares at what's left. "Your heart stops beating when we were rushing you to the hospital. Natasha keeps on..." He rushes in a quick breath, calming himself. Death happens. It happens all the time.

But that was too close, even Steve's got to admit. Too damn close, it scares him right to his core every time he thinks he hears Natasha's screams on Hill's lifeless body, yelling her to wake up.

"I'm glad you're safe," he tells her finally, forcing himself to send out a small smile. "I'm glad you're safe now."

She preps herself to sit higher on the bed and Steve doesn't tell her that her silver eyes were burning right to his very skin, but he doesn't walk away when she shifts her position, pulling up a fabric he doesn't see her keep. She waves the thing — a scarf, a red scarf — until it goes over his shoulder, around his neck, and she tugs.

He looks at it, surprised.

"You're cold," she mentions again and pats the cloth, blinking up at him. "Keep it, it's yours." She nods, bringing her hands back to her laps. "It means I care too."

Steve smiles.

Maybe not saying thanks and you're welcome aren't a bad thing after all.

...

(A week later he helps her to her apartment, fixes her bed, dusts off her bookshelves and makes her tea. She doesn't order him away. He stays.)