62 The End

Hear me read this chapter at soundcloud blithebells/62-the-end

Blue first.

A wide, clean blue circle, arcing over silver and shining in the light.

Next white, then red.

Move your arm. Turn the plates. A second coat will help.

Steve could feel Bucky holding almost entirely still and Steve focused on keeping the paint thick and even.

It wasn't really much that he was doing, but creating again felt good. It was tiring, surprisingly so, but another courageous thing is to work even when you're worn and in pain. And after all, that's what superheroes do, isn't it? They're courageous.

Paint is easy to go over, to cover up, to pretend everything was okay when underneath, Steve was screaming. But here and now, it was different. This star was honest, he realized. It hid nothing.

"I'm not covering anything this time," he mentioned quietly to Bucky and Bucky looked over at Steve and the paintbrush in his hand and back down at his own clean, shining shoulder.

"Yeah," he replied. "Imagine that."

It had taken maybe half a week for Tony to ship Bucky's prosthetic back to him in tip-top condition. Well, all except for the scraped and mutilated star, and right after Bucky managed to get his arm back on, he and Steve scrubbed off the remaining paint in order to start again.

White paint. Sharp angles for the star. Turn this way, Buck, stay in the light.

"I finished your book," Steve said after a while and Bucky became tense suddenly and Steve pulled his paintbrush back just in time to save what would have been a smear. There was quiet and Bucky eased back into Steve, who was leaning across the counter again like he had been a month or two ago when they'd done this the first time.

"Don't know what to say," he replied after a while. "It, uh… Must not have been a lot of fun."

"That wasn't the point," Steve replied and he let out a breath and brought the back of his hand to his face to rub his eyes and almost drew a line of bright white across his forehead in an attempt to keep emotion from his itching eyes. Bucky laughed a little and smiled, a true laugh, one Steve hadn't heard in a while.

"Watch it, Picasso," he said and Steve rolled his eyes and grinned back.

It was one of those Good Days, for both of them. He could smile.

"I don't have anything like it to give you," Steve added as he continued on Bucky's shoulder and his face became serious once more. "But, uh, I guess that's cause I'm not… gonna die." He wasn't looking at Bucky's face, and he stared hard at the star on his shoulder to avoid it, but out of the corner of his eye, he could feel Bucky look up at him suddenly.

"You're not?" He said. Steve made a face.

"No," he said. "No, I'm not." Bucky looked away and Steve took his elbow and prompted him to move it and the plates slid away to reveal metal not yet painted.

"I'm really glad," Bucky said quietly and Steve looked up and blinked and set his paintbrush down and stood up. Bucky looked up at him from his stool and dropped his arm slowly. Steve cupped his face in both hands and scrubbed it.

"You have to help me though, Bucky, I," Steve said through his hands and then he stepped back and put his hands on his waist and looked off and he could feel his face growing red but he didn't have the time anymore to care about it. "I don't know," he said. "It's hard."

"I know," Bucky said and he sat forward like he was going to stand too, but he didn't. "I know, I understand." He sat back then a little and stared at Steve and Steve glanced over at him desperately. Bucky gave him a look he recognized, cocking his head just in the slightest, staring at him. "You know I'll always be there for you, right?" He said. "To the end of the line?"

Like it always did, that phrase sparked a welling of pain inside of Steve and he struggled to keep a cap on it.

"Yeah," he said. "I know that… I know it now. I think that's part of the reason I can live, why I can choose it."

"What do you mean," Bucky asked. Steve looked back at him and dropped his hands from his waist and shrugged.

"It's harder to find a point in living when you, uh, don't think you're doing any good for anyone," he admitted and then he stepped forward and sat back down, staring at the countertop. "When you don't mean something to anyone."

"You mean something to me," Bucky said.

"I know," Steve said and raised his hands. "Now… I know." Steve looked up a little from the counter and then he picked up his brush again and wet it again in paint. "Move in," he said quietly and Bucky did. He could feel Bucky's eyes on him as he worked again, striving now to keep the redness from his face and the wetness from his eyes.

"I can keep reminding you," Bucky offered quietly as Steve set down his brush and picked up another one of a different size. Steve rubbed his face, clean brush in hand, and stared hard at Bucky's shoulder.

There was no one moment of truth for Steve. It came as a slow realization, one that sinks in after a long time, after someone takes the time every day to make you feel loved like Bucky probably didn't even know he'd done for Steve.

It was hard to believe, when people said they loved him and said that Steve wasn't a burden, but after a while, drinking the soup Bucky had tried so hard to make for him, hugging him when they both felt ready to die, well, there's something nice in knowing someone needs you as much as you need them. It's not a fast realization thing. It's a slow, building declaration of love and even if that's all you have, all you have in the world, it's one of those shining happy spots that's worth it.

Sam had told Steve that no one could choose life for him. That they could help him and walk with him always, but that in the end, it was Steve who would have to take the steps towards recovery, towards feeling like living. It was his decision to make. But he didn't do it alone, and he choose life while in the warmth of Natasha's smile when she looked at him and the way Sharon had tried so hard to be kind to him and how Bucky's friendship and his returned love was everything.

"Do I deserve this?" Steve said quietly and watched the red now, bright red ringing the rest of the insignia. He brought his brush up again, loaded with more paint, and finished the circle.

"Huh?" Bucky said.

"Love," Steve said. "Do I deserve it." Bucky looked down at Steve's painting and when Steve told him to move, he did, rolling his shoulder back, careful with the drying paint.

"It's not about deserving it, Steve, it's," Bucky said and his eyes flickered up to Steve now. "It's bigger than that, I think." Steve just nodded quietly.

"I guess I'm giving you this," Steve said and he looked up at Bucky and held up his paintbrush. "This star. It's not a journal, but…" but it's a declaration of love.

"Thank you," Bucky replied and Steve smiled.

"You're welcome," he replied.

Steve had fought a war. He'd fought bullies in back alleys and chitauri in New York and even his own best friend once or twice and he lived. He didn't understand it, and sometimes he didn't like it, but he lived. And he'd do it one more time.