you and me from the night before

Notes:

this is a DRASTIC departure from the tone of "it's a long, long time", so if you need a break from all that angst you have come to the right place. you know that scene in superstore where amy takes a sip of a drink and says, "oh yeah, that's a cloud"? that's how fluffy this is.

MAJOR shoutout to ruffaled for the incredibly helpful beta! I do also need a semi-permanent beta, so if you'd be interested please find me on tumblr! stolethekey

Everyone went too hard on the confetti bombs last night.

The scraps of paper litter the living room floor, bright and joyful against the dark, muted color of the hardwood.

Steve's dangling fingers brush against a loose piece of yellow as he wakes, sending it airborne, as he blinks his eyes open. He watches blearily as it drifts back onto the rug, three shades brighter in the sunlight peeking through the window.

His eyes rove around the apartment as his mind slowly clears, taking in the remnants of the night before—the shimmering pile of pink in the corner a reminder of Natasha unleashing a tube of glitter over Bruce's head with a gleeful shout, and the spread of wax underneath the coffee table marking the spot where Tony dropped a candle coax Pepper into a drunken rendition of the "Dirty Dancing" lift, much to everyone's delight. Pieces of a broken vase, the casualty of that attempt, lie scattered on the coffee table. Steve is pretty sure that video lives on at least five phones now, and he makes a mental note to ask Natasha for it.

The place is really, truly, messy: empty plastic cups are scattered throughout the room, and Steve has a vague memory of trying to gather some of them up before being pulled away by a gentle set of hands attached to a warm, comforting body.

"Come on," a voice had murmured in his ear, dragging Steve away from the garbage bag half-open on the counter. "We can just do it tomorrow."

Snow is falling lightly outside, and Steve props himself up on an elbow to look through the window; he sees a young woman shivering as she makes the short trip from the lobby door to her taxi, stilettos dangling loosely from her fingers. It is, after all, January 1, and Brooklyn is objectively freezing, but in his position on the couch Steve is comfortably and contentedly warm.

He thinks the cold is being repelled by the body next to him, squeezed against the back of the couch—the flannel pajama-clad leg draped over his own and the chest pressing against his back radiate warmth and security. As he drops his head back into the cushion, he feels his companion stir.

He turns as gently as he can to prevent himself from falling off the couch, tucking his head into Bucky's chest. Bucky hums quietly, eyes still closed, and as Steve's eyes fall shut once again he feels a cold, smooth hand sweep softly along the back of his neck.

It is astounding to him, still, how gentle metal can be.

In another world, the man beside him is a mere teenage boy, standing on the porch, begging Steve to stop isolating himself. In a different one, Steve is watching him fall through the air, eyes wide with terror, where the feeling of loss is so sharp, so all-consuming, that it leaves him permanently closed off to those around him. One world features the same arm currently resting on Steve's back pointing a gun directly at his face, eyes devoid of recognition. Another one includes the same arm dragging Steve from the water and dropping him unceremoniously on the shore.

There are thousands of different worlds they have lived through, thousands of friends and enemies interwoven, bursting into their lives and, sometimes, fading into the past. There have been thousands of changes, thousands of revolutions and transformations and shifts in their realities. Through it all, only one thing has stayed the same: the two of them, surviving.

Them, surviving.

As Steve runs a finger along the hem of the T-shirt his face is currently pressed against, he finally sees that, of all the variables in the messy, volatile world they live in, this one will always be a constant.

"You're my sanctuary," he mumbles into the fabric.

Bucky lets out a soft snort. "Okay, Romeo."

A grin spreads across Steve's face, then shifts into a pout when he feels Bucky move his weight. "Wait, no, it's so cold—"

"This sanctuary needs to get off the couch before his spine never straightens again."

Steve looks up to face Bucky, who is now standing at the foot of the couch with a comical glare in his eyes. "A sanctuary doesn't just up and leave when things get hard."

"I'm not leaving, I'm going to brush my teeth—"

"A sanctuary also doesn't make excuses—"

"What if the sanctuary makes you breakfast?"

"Fine," Steve says, flashing a triumphant grin. "I guess."

Bucky smirks before turning to head to the bathroom, and as the door closes behind him, Steve swings his feet onto the floor. He stretches lazily, back cracking loudly in the process, and when he hears the bathroom faucet turn on, he stands slowly to walk into the kitchen.

Glitter clings to his socks as he walks, his footsteps tracing soft echoes from the night before. He can hear the laughter, rising above the music blaring from their newly-installed speaker system; he can see the smiles, on joyful faces and in shining eyes, genuine, bright, and full of love. He can feel the arms around him, the chest rising and falling against his cheek as they sway to the beat, waiting for the final moments of the year to pass by. He can feel the rest of the world fall away as the clock strikes midnight and a set of lips brushes against his, ever so gently; he can hear the cheers as they break apart, surrounded by friends, confetti, and the cups full of beer that would litter his apartment the next morning.

The agony of years past is not gone, by any means—it flickers in the touch of sadness hovering around Bruce's smile; it hovers in the air when Natasha's jaw clenches a little too tightly at the first explosion of fireworks outside. It lingers in Tony's wistful glance at the family of four snuggled together on the couch in the apartment building across the street, visible through the window. The pain persists in all of them, sometimes subsiding but always there; it lies, hidden but very, very real, underneath all of their smiles and cheers.

None of that is ever leaving any of them, Steve knows. He has lived through enough New Year's Days to know that a new calendar doesn't erase the blood and tears shed during a long, hard life; there is no clean slate that can save them from the screams that still echo in their heads sometimes.

As he picks a piece of hot pink glitter off the sole of his foot, Steve thinks he might prefer this anyway.

Oil is crackling in the pan when Steve hears the bathroom sink stop running, and he is about to crack open an egg when Bucky enters the kitchen.

He stops in front of the counter and crosses his arms by way of greeting. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I just thought I'd get started—"

"No," Bucky says, shaking his head, "I said I'm making breakfast and I'm doing it. Bye now."

Steve grins, sheepishly, and sets the egg down; as he passes Bucky he leans in, ever so slightly.

Bucky recoils dramatically, shoving him backwards. "Nuh-uh. No. I do not need stale beer coming in contact with my minth fresh breath. Brush your teeth before you even think about bringing that mouth near me."

Steve laughs, backing slowly down the hallway. "Fine. Let me help when I get back, then."

"I said I was gonna do it—"

"I was joking, I can still help—"

"No," Bucky says, eyes suddenly much softer. "You've done enough."

The grin on Steve's face fades into a gentle smile as he turns away, and as he steps into the bathroom, the night before comes to him again.

Except this time every memory is of the man currently frying eggs, a couple feet away— it's three quick squeezes of his hand as they walk down the hallway; it's the two of them, stealing a moment inside this very bathroom, away from the crowd; it's quiet mumbles of this is our first New Year's Eve together in seventy years, and thank you for never giving up on me, and I finally feel happy and that's because of you. It's Bucky's eyes, ordinarily so guarded, staring into his with a level of vulnerability that makes his heart beat faster and his grip on the metal arm tighten.

There is a version of him, he knows, that is reserved just for the two of them.

It's softer, less refined, and only exists within these walls, and as the smell of bacon wafts through the open bathroom door, Steve decides that he will never stop thanking the universe for it.

Bucky is still frying bacon when Steve reemerges from the bathroom. "Do you wanna sort through those photos on the floor? I don't want to accidentally throw them away later when we're cleaning."

Steve settles next to the Polaroid photos scattered across the hardwood floor with a hum of agreement, tucking his legs behind him. The camera itself is nowhere to be found, though he's pretty sure he saw Natasha slip it into her jacket before she left—if he's right, it'll show up on eBay before the day is over, likely under the title "AUTHENTIC Avengers-used Polaroid camera, signed by Tony Stark!"

(He's also pretty sure he saw Natasha hand Tony a Sharpie and ask for an autograph after the Dirty Dancing lift. Six-drink Tony is never going to remember it).

The photos are shockingly clear, given the state their subjects were in; as Steve sifts through the pile, he sees that all of them are usable, smiling and heavily inebriated faces vibrant against the dark background. There are posed pictures, where everyone is immaculate, looking like they're at a Vanity Fair party, but there are also candids, captured mid-laugh, mid-scream, mid-kiss, and those are the ones Steve's gaze lingers on.

The people in the photographs form a messy, ragtag group of outsiders, of friends, of those who once thought they would never truly belong, dancing and singing and cheering. The photos are bursting with energy, with love—and they portray a group of people who found a way to build themselves a home.

A family.

The Polaroids end up in a small photo album Steve picked up from a garage sale a few months ago, and as he slides it into place on their coffee table he notices Bucky staring.

He turns, eyes catching the two heaping plates on the dining table, and his stomach rumbles in hunger. "What?"

"Nothing," Bucky says, laughing slightly. "Just—it's gonna be a good year."

"Yeah," Steve grins, moving to grab the fork out of Bucky's hand. "Yeah, it is."

And when the album goes missing the next time Natasha comes over, only to end up on a bookshelf at the Avengers headquarters a few days later, even Steve has to admit that it's where it belongs.

Notes:

the inspiration for this fic comes from two incredible piano ballads: "the day that the dance is over" by darren criss and "new year's day" by taylor swift. I love them both so much and they have similar messages: that true love is not the explosion of cheers and a kiss on new year's eve, gone as soon as the clock marks a turn of the calendar page. instead, it's the muted, weary movement the morning after—it's picking the confetti and glitter off the floor after the dance is over. it's knowing that, tired and hungover and hungry, they'll still be there.