screwyoumarvel | Scenes From a Homecoming, Part the Second

July 15, The Apartment of Steve Rogers, Brooklyn, New York

“You could stay,” Steve said helplessly, not sure what else to say. "I'm thinking of moving back to Manhattan anyway."

“Yeah,” Bucky said without looking up from the bag that held all of his possessions. “I bet that would go over really well with Natashenka.”

Cockblocking the Black Widow. Not exactly a way to stay healthy. And here he’d just come back from the dead. “Never mind,” he said with half a smile. “You should go. But. You know you’re always welcome here, right?”

Bucky looked up at him. “Right. You need better security, by the way. People just walk in here all the time, I swear.” As if on cue, someone knocked on the door. “See?”

Steve went to answer it. It was his apartment, after all.

It was Sam, with Rachel and Natasha and Bernie right behind him. Rachel struck a pose and held up two plastic bags. “We brought booze.”

“And food,” Sam added. “Instant welcome back from the dead party. Where the hell have you been?”

"Washington."

"Before last week."

“Oh, that. High school.”

“So literal hell.”

“Not always.”

Bernie stepped forward, looked him over, and delivered the promised slap with enough force to rock his head, even though he was expecting it. Then she flung her arms around him and said into his chest, “Welcome back.”

“Thank you,” he said to her hair. “Thank you.”

Rachel stepped around them and said, “I really shouldn’t be here, you know, I’m still on probation for that last jewel heist and I’m not supposed to leave Jersey.”

Steve looked up from Bernie and said simply, “Rachel.”

“I know, I know.”

“It’s like a sickness with you, girl,” Sam told her, ruffling her white blonde hair. It looked weird.

“Rach, why aren’t you pink?”

“Oh, that.” She sat her burdens down on the table and started pulling tubs of Manic Panic out of one of them. “I went plain for the court appearances. Rosenthal thought it looked more demure. Now you artist people have to help me decide what shade. I’m sick of Cotton Candy, it’s so eighties.”

Steve staggered back, clutching his chest. “Rachel...changing her hair...”

“Bite me.”

“Wait, you’re not doing this in my bathroom, are you? Because I never did get the pink out of the sink at the old place before it blew up.”

“Kitchen sink is stainless and it has a handpiece,” Natasha pointed out.

He threw up his hands in concession of defeat.

“Oh, before I forget,” Bernie said, “here.” She held out a plain white envelope. “Namor asked me to give this to you.”

“Namor?”

“There was a bit of trouble with the corpse,” Bucky explained. “We needed his help getting it straightened out.” Well, that made things about as clear as mud.

Steve frowned in confusion as he opened the envelope. Inside was a plain piece of paper with a simple message on it: This woman has spirit. I approve. Glad you are not dead. He crumpled it up, beamed at Bernie, and said, “Wow, you must have really impressed him. What did you do, slap him?”

***

Four Hours Later

Rachel had a plastic bag wrapped around her head to keep Pretty Flamingo from ruining every last thing Steve owned, Bernie had stolen a sketchpad and pencil to start designing a new piece, and Natasha Romanova was sitting in Bucky Barnes’ lap. Redwing looked at them all, disapproving as only a hawk could disapprove. It was officially a party.

“Sharon’s crazy,” Bucky said bluntly. “Not just brainwashed, I really think she’s actually gone crazy. They’re keeping her sedated and restrained, but it’s tricky with her–-” he stopped.

Steve really did wish he could get drunk sometimes. “Pregnant,” he finished.

“Yes. That. You were right about that.”

And then it hit him like a freight train, the thing he’d been trying not to remember all this time. “She shot me,” he said in a dull voice that sounded like it was coming from someone else. “It was her.”

“...yeah, I was hoping you wouldn’t remember that.”

"We figured that out a while ago," Sam admitted.

“Jesus Christ,” Rachel muttered, and reached for the rum.

“Subject change time,” Bernie declared without looking up from her work. Steve felt a surge of renewed affection for her. “Natalya, how’s your not-so-hostile takeover of SHIELD going?”

“What?”

“Tony is, how shall I say this, fucked,” Natasha said before tossing back a shot of vodka. “He’s still Director, but probably not for very much longer. And Maria Hill’s next in line, and she already bombed that test when she had people start shooting at you. So I’m next, and therefore probably the next director of SHIELD, since Nick’s still in the doghouse and nowhere to be found.”

Steve blinked at her. Considered. “Good,” he decided. “They need someone not American at the wheel. It’s a UN agency, for crying out loud.”

“And the very first thing I plan to do is start an internal inquiry as to why we were acting like jacked-up cops, and like we had any business enforcing American law,” she said.

Steve had always liked Natasha.

“Meanwhile,” Bernie said, “I’ll be fighting her for that one there,” she nodded to Bucky, “because he can’t work for both of us at the same time and I seem to suddenly find myself a superhuman law attorney.” She looked up and said unhappily, “I get at least fifteen calls a day from people freaking out about this aftermath, and considering that She-Hulk was strongly pro-reg and working for Goodman, Lieber, Kurtzberg, and Book during the worst of it, they don’t want to go to them. And Murdock and Nelson seem to be having their own problems again. So. How the hell did that happen?”

“What, you winding up in superhuman law?” Sam wanted to know.

“Yeah.”

“You dated him.” He gestured to Steve with his beer.

“Once you’re in, you can’t get back out,” Rachel agreed.

“Dammit.”

“Steve,” Bucky said, and “Steve, listen...” For a long moment they stared into one another’s eyes, and then Bucky said, “No, it’s gone.”

He had to laugh. “How drunk are you?”

“Extremely.”

“It is the arm,” Natasha opined. “It doesn’t count toward his mass, so he is a lightweight. Sixty years in Russia and the man cannot drink; it is a shame.”

“Actually, the longest stretch I was conscious was in Afghanistan.”

Steve and Natasha’s eyes met, and they both knew: this wasn’t something Bucky talked about. Ever. Especially not in front of people he barely knew. “I’m cutting you off,” Natasha declared, and stole Bucky’s beer.

“Natashenka!”

“No, you’ve had enough. Don’t whine at me. Anyway, until that happens, I am taking all my vacation time in the name of not being in a room with Tony Stark. He's emo that I helped with the case, and I'm tired of not telling him why I know you're not a Skrull.”

Steve knew an opening when he saw it. “So you’re already off work, then.”

“What?”

“I’m going to Paris with Bucky. We’re going dancing, like we said we would way back in the day. Come with us.” Inspiration struck, and he turned to Bernie. “You, too.”

She gave him A Look. “Steve.”

“Look, I know–-I know we didn’t work out. But–-just come to Paris with me, Bernie. Rachel can't come, she has to stay in New Jersey. And I need a dance partner.”

They stared into each other’s eyes for a long moment, until Bernie broke away with a huff. “Yeah, all right. I never could tell you no.”

“Liar.” He knew what would liven this party up. “Have I showed you guys my pictures of Tony Stark when he turned into a pony yet?”