Edit [July 21, 2013] - Hi! You may have already seen this fic on another account by the name of Child's Knight. That account along with the email connected to it was hacked and so I'm moving all those stories to this new account (variable 4).

He hasn't slept in a while. Which in itself isn't so strange. Most of the time it's hard to get more than a couple hours of sleep at a time. Whether it's because of mission adrenaline, nightmares, hyper-alertness, or just an inability to lie down and be still long enough to rest; the point is that Steve doesn't get much shuteye. Today it's a mixture reasons that contribute to his wakefulness.

A week long mission whose climax led the team to D.C. had him exhausted. He doesn't appreciate super-baddies being explosive on the President's lawn. That led to a press conference to address damages done to the nation's capital. Captain America heads the conference, answering questions as best he can and with the help of Agent Hill giving him stats and quick answers (usually of the 'that's classified' variety) through his earpiece. Some of the questions he expects 'Who will be paying for the damage and havoc wreaked?' others he doesn't and finds completely random in relation to the subject 'What's your opinion on vegans becoming an increasingly prominent group in America today?'

He would gladly to pass off media duty to anyone willing, if only it weren't for his stubborn conscience reminding him that he's the appointed leader of the Avengers, and as was with the Howling Commandos, it's his job to represent. Not to mention it's decidedly not a good idea to have any of the other Avengers talking to be public at a formal conference. Tony... well Tony's Tony and that's not the kind of publicity the team needs. Bruce isn't one for public speaking, anger issues aside. Clint and Natasha don't fall into that category either and Thor, Thor can't always be taken seriously with his accent and vocabulary. And so it was that Captain America is left behind a podium, in front of a sea of reporters, and playing 20 questions. Except he doesn't get to ask any.

Hours pass before he's done and by the time he is, Steve's ready to punch a hole in something. Preferably that irksome reporter's camera. Instead he smiles and waves before slipping backstage and letting himself be whisked away by SHIELD PR agents who know him well enough by now to just get him home. And to get him food (which today he doesn't but what can he do?).

Steve hadn't thought he would find something worse than the war bond tours, but press of the 21st century manages to steal first place. After a mission he wants to go home and rest, maybe call Peggy depending on how beat he is. Tonight he knows he'll just shower and try to sleep. Try being an important word because he's not sure he'll be successful.

The flight home feels longer than it should and he's nodding off in the quinjet, only to snap awake ever couple minutes and then drift off again. Once back at the tower he gladly departs from the SHIELD agents and goes directly to his room. It's nearing midnight, he notes, and he wonders if Tony is still in his workshop and if Bruce has left his lab.

After peeling out of the suit and scrubbing away the camera makeup, he decides to head up to the kitchen for a snack, hoping that the others are asleep or at least not on the floor he's headed to. They may be his team and his friends and the closest thing to family he has in the current century, but tonight he doesn't think he can keep a handle on himself in his current mood.

A head count had been sent to his phone while he'd been talking to the press, and so he knows his team is all accounted for and any injuries will heal without difficulty. Normally he would make sure himself that everyone was safe and sound, but with his use once more as a government puppet to speak to the citizenry, that hadn't been possible. Adjusting to this new team hadn't been easy for Steve, constant parallels being drawn up in his mind between then and now, Howlers and Avengers, living and coping.

He's learning this new team, though, finding habits and understanding personalities to better lead them and know them. Although most of the time he tries to understand them so that he doesn't feel quite so alone in the world. Slowly, the feeling that he's finally moving forward – rather than just standing still as everything and everyone around him moves – comes more often and he doesn't destroy punching bags out of self-hate anymore (well, less often).

He ignores that Natasha hums Mozart while cleaning her guns just like Falsworth did while writing letters to his dame back home. Ignores that Bruce has a hidden mischievousness like Dernier had and could tell a story just as awe-inspiringly as Gabe did. He ignores how Thor's bluntness and loudness remind him of Dugan shouting at the team to get to the bar (which they all did without hesitation), a hand clamping on his shoulder to pull him away from whatever he'd been doing. Though Steve will never say it aloud, Tony is definitely his father's son, even if they're vastly different, but at least in looks, they're similar enough to twist Steve's tongue into formingHoward instead of Tony. Steve doesn't think about how Clint and Tony's ribbing – though different from what he's familiar with – is so painfully reminiscent of years spent countering Bucky's prods and teasing.

He doesn't think about any of that, forcing himself to step away from the melancholy that is wrapped around the thoughts. It's a drill he's well acquainted with; accidentally letting his mind wander and finding it in a graveyard of memories and friends, jumping away, and then finding something – anything – to distract him from the too dark shadows in his mind.

Something's launched at him and he's so out of it he almost doesn't notice. The projectile is caught in a tight fist, his mind scrambling to catch up with his suddenly racing thoughts.

"Get over here, Capsicle, we've got pie," Tony calls from the couch. The rest are there as well, each with a plate carrying a slice of delicious smelling pie. How on Earth had he not smelled that earlier? He sees Natasha looking at his hand with a faint smirk, and it seems again that he's failed to notice something because the earlier projectile just so happens to be a fork. One of Tony's designated pie forks, to be exact.

The invitation is clear and Steve can't turn it down. Even if he very much would like to.

On the elliptic glass coffee table are various pie boxes, each identical save for the slits in the tops that show different fillings within. "Why the pies?" he asks, because his tired mind can't find words to ask about their health, or why they're together when usually they split after missions, or to wonder why Tony seems more subdued, or why Natasha doesn't stop clawing at a trow pillow in rhythmic scratches.

"It's pi day," is all Tony says, and Steve can feel a hint of frustration at his lack of understanding, probably because Tony speaks in references the man out of time never understands and right now he's not in the mood to be patient.

Luckily enough for him Bruce picks up on his confusion and takes enough pity on him to explain. "Pi, when talking math, is a letter of the Greek alphabet representing a value of 3.14159... the number goes on indefinitely." The curly haired man snatches up a napkin and pulls a pen from a pocket and scribbles something onto it then motions to Steve to come over. He does and sees a date written on it. He's slowly coming to a conclusion in his head, but doesn't chase after it, he wants to go to bed.

"March fourteenth. So?"

"When you write it out like this..." His writing is messy, Steve notes, just like all the scientists he's known. 3/14/15 "March is the third month of the year, so three. It's the fourteenth day, so fourteen. And if it were 2015 then it'd be fifteen. 31415, just like pi. But for now pi day's just month and day."

He feels more than a bit stupid now. He remembers learning about this in middle school, and then sitting through boring math classes using it in high school. The connection should have come quicker, but it hadn't and he can see that certain look in Tony's expression (just like his father had when Steve didn't understand something so simple).

"So... You're all just sitting here eating pie?" And he sits down too and is handed a slice of apple cinnamon pie. Haha, Tony, he thinks but remains silent, his mouth watering just before he takes a bite.

"We watched your press conference," Clint puts forward through a mouth of pie.

Thor clasps his shoulder and says, "You defended our team's honor valiantly." And the others nod and congratulate him on calming the media shitstrom that had blown through in the wake of their defensive destruction.

"That ended two hours ago," he notes, only slightly distracted by his pie. "What have you been doing since then? And why is there still pie?"

"Ah," Bruce starts, a tad too guiltily for Steve's liking. "Well, we decided to wait for you, to eat pie, so we had pizza pies for dinner and pie pie for when you got here. What have we been doing? Um.. Thor was curious if you were always so collected when addressing be public, and then we got curious, and so Tony pulled up old film reels from back in the day..."

"The war bond movies," Steve deadpans as his face twists into a grimace. "I think I'll just head back to my room now." But Natasha forces him back down on the floor beside her. Steve grumbles but quiets when another slice of pie is dropped onto his plate. Cherry.

"There was a good laugh at those, yes," Natasha placates, "But we also watched some news reels from after your stint as a show girl." Those he's far less embarrassed by, but the thought of his team watching the old him still rattles him. Did they notice the difference between Steve-in-his-proper-time and perpetually-lost-in-the-twenty-first-century-Steve ? "Stay and watch some?" He hesitates but then Tony waves another pie box in front of him and he agrees. Pumpkin.

Watching himself on-screen is just as strange and unsettling now as it always was, even more so now that he's with his teammates. Thinking about it, there had probably been clips of Howard, which would explain Tony's less than exuberant teasing.

He finds himself wanting to smile til his face splits and cry at the same time when the film cuts to a shot with his whole team, a half circle formed around Bucky and Dugan wresting over the larger man's hat. The spectators, including Steve, are grinning and Morita jumps in when the grappling pair crash into him and the stool he's sitting on. The narrator is talking about the Howling Commandos being a tight-knit band of brothers, a bad pun about camaraderie tacked on at the end.

Steve remembers that day. Back at camp that morning without injury, they'd spent most of the morning roughhousing jokingly. Jokingly until Bucky snatched Dugan's bowler hat from off his head and started playing keep away that is.

Despite the ache that came with seeing his friends on screen, Steve's enjoying himself for the moment. He ignores the pang of sadness whenever there's a glimpse of Peggy and focuses on the smiling faces of Bucky, Dum-Dum, Morita, Falsworth, Dernier, Gabe, Howard, Philips, and the other familiar faces in the SSR.

Slowly however, something begins grating against his nerves. He knows what that something is but forces it down like he always does, because it's stupid and there's nothing he can do about it.

The images onscreen clash with the memories in his mind, the dull grainy reels a poor recording compared to what he remembers. He tries not to let the annoyances distract him and focuses on the narrator's inaccurate detailing of his team's missions.

But now that the thought has made itself known he can't stop thinking about it and instead of watching the grey faces on the screen he closes his eyes and sees the blue eyes of his best friend that sparkled with mischief. Tents and uniforms that had seemed so dull back then are vivid in his mind and he remembers Peggy in uniform, her eyes and lips always standing out against everything else.

It's not right, that everything from his time is remembered in muted color and varying shades of grey. There are movies that he's watched with the rest of the team that were intentionally filmed in black and white, "To make it feel old," Clint had explained. But the world didn't suddenly become colorful after the war. The world was and is full of vibrant colors that have always been, it's not like a switch was flipped and all of a sudden the world went from grey and grey to red and blue and green and yellow and all the colors in between. It bothers him because his life before the ice wasn't dull and boring like the grey implies. Leaves were just as green then as now and people's faces more than just shadows.

He knows that his time is synonymous with the idea colorlessness, and it just rubs him the wrong way. The fact that the 17th century is remembered with more color than his time isn't right to him. Films hadn't been in color at the time, but that doesn't mean that eyes weren't brown, and blue, and green or that a gal's dress couldn't be vermillion, or emerald, or violet. Photographs are the same. It hadn't bothered him back then, when he could see his life in color just by looking away from the images, but it's different now.

And it's not just the lack of color, but also that everyone sees the time when he lived as so far away, and they're right to because it was. But not for Steve, for Steve 1944 wasn't nearly seven decades ago, and it makes him feel so alone even while surrounded by new comrades. Just yesterday he was running around Europe hunting down HYDRA soldiers with a main-base under the city of London. Today he's fighting mutants and aliens and the main-base is up in the air with the clouds. His team was just a bunch of average Joes who volunteered to make a difference and keep their country safe. Now a third of his team is strapped in with varying degrees of blackmail and threats, another third because they're ordered to, and the last because they have no where else to go. And these aren't just regular people now, he's working with assassins, an accidental monster, a man in a metal suit, and an alien. Everything has changed.

Opening his eyes again at Dugan's voice, he finds the man giving an interview and lovingly calling the rest of them blithering idiots. His face is grey and so are his clothes and the trees behind him and–

"–teve?"

"Hmm?"

"You alright?" It's Bruce asking, eyes crinkling slightly with what's probably worry.

He pulls himself from the old brooding point and does his best to lie to his team. "Yeah, just feeling nostalgic." Partially true, but the people around him see right through it.

With a poke placed between his shoulder blades by Tony's toe, Natasha fixes him with a look as Clint says, "'fess up, Rogers. We know your brooding face by this point."

"It's nothing, guys, really. Just..." he trails off, not willing to admit his stupid vexation.

Tony kicks him. "Stark!"

But it's five against one and even Thor's frowning at him. "Dugan," he motions vaguely to the laughing face, "He's– was, a red head." They stare at him blankly. "Dernier always had blue shirts and Falsworth's beret was red. My pencils were yellow and Bucky had a pair of hideous orange and green polka dot socks and..." he stops because it's just so stupid and he can practically hear Bucky telling him to stop being a baby.

He doesn't realize he said anything more until Natasha's hand rests on his white-knuckled fist and says, "It's not stupid." But Tony snorts and he knows that, yes it is stupid. "Stark," she snaps and the man's teasing is silenced.

"None of it was grey, it was all in color. Brooklyn, the shows, the war, my friends." The screen shows a shot of him in the old suit, walking down a ruined street the he remembers was a lot redder than the tape shows, the blood splatters merely darkened to a black-grey. He points at his grey-stained self. "My shield may be black and white but it was red and blue. Just like the blue sky under which red blood was spilled. Like Bucky's blue eyes and Peggy's red lips..." His voice dwindles into a whisper and he's not sure if the others heard the last part. He hopes not, those are personal.

The tear that slips from his left eye he attributes to his exhaustion preventing him from successfully keeping his emotions in check. That is, until more roll down his cheeks and he accepts that there's nothing more to it than his own weakness. The palms of his hands dig into his eyes, the pie plate long forgotten on the floor.

"How long have you been out of the ice?" He can't tell who said it over the roaring thoughts of stupid, stupid, stupid, pull yourself together, Rogers!

"Eight months, or something like that."

He thinks he hears someone – Tony, maybe? – mutter 'Christ, he was fighting a war less than a year ago'. There's some shuffling and his hands are pried away from his face. Bruce is in front of him and he's got a look similar to Father Scott's – from back when he still went to church as a kid.

He misses the church. It hadn't been the most well funded, but it was a refuge for many Brooklynites, particularly the immigrants. A good number of the regulars had been Irish immigrants, just like his mother, and more often than not he was sent home with a sac of potatoes. He recalls going to confession now and again, usually after Bucky had gotten them into trouble a little too perverse than he could morally deal with. Father Scott had always been understanding and kind. He flashes to a memory of tall man clad in black, comforting a small seven-year-old who'd stolen a loaf of bread and was afraid God would smite him and his mother.

"Steve, it's not stupid, alright? It–"

"But it is," and he sounds like a whining child. "They're colors and I'm..." He swipes away the reemerging water droplets.

The screen's showing him and Peggy looking over a map and he remembers the perpetual burning of his ears the entire meeting. He'd been distracted by her nails, red like her dress the week before, and he wishes for the millionth time that he could go back to his friends, to her. And promptly feels guilty about thinking that.

"I'm gonna go to bed now." He hates how his voice wavers. So much for being Captain America. "Thanks for the pie."

In the morning he's sore but his emotions aren't forcing him to cry anymore. He'd fallen into bed and lied there letting memories ravage his mind. Eventually sleep had claimed him and now he's feeling decent enough to feel ashamed of his actions last night. Sitting up, he stretches, lets the ache of his muscles wash over him, and then enjoys the looseness that follows once he relaxes.

Off the night stand he grabs his compass, gently opening it to find the familiar photo of Peggy staring back at him. A twinge of irritation rises up, but after a long restful night he bats it down easily enough. He has another photo of her, in color, but it's an older Peggy. He can't bear to put that one in his compass because that Peggy isn't his, she's a luckier man's wife. So he keeps his Peggy in the compass and deals with the grey.

The clock says it's almost noon, and he can't remember the last time he's slept in so late. The pad of his thumb sweeps over her image, and he sits there staring for a long while.

"I should apologize, shouldn't I?" He doesn't quite know why, but after making them deal with his breakdown, he feels he should at least say sorry.

He wonders, after dressing and on his way to the kitchen, if he'll have to seek out each of them individually. They're usually scattered about by this time, but for the most part remaining within the Tower. Fortunately (though why exactly he can't explain) they're all congregated in the kitchen, even Tony and Bruce who are normally holed up in the labs. Good, he thinks, I don't have to bring this up more than once.

Everything stops when he walks in, which has him cringing internally. He really should have controlled himself better last night.

There's a nondescript and completely conspicuous box on the table, a ribbon wrapped around it and tied in a bow. The rectangular box is larger than his shield and it about a foot tall. Although he's curious about the mystery box he's on a mission and any questions about boxes can wait until after.

"I'm sorry about last night. You didn't need to see that and–"

"You're sorry?" Tony says incredulously.

"Yeah... um, I probably made you all uncomfortable and ruined your night, so: sorry. It wasn't–"

"Shut your damn mouth, Rogers," the other man snaps angrily, to Steve's bemusement.

"But–"

"No," Clint cuts off with a faint frown. "Just shut up." Steve looks around at the rest, certain that his confusion is clear on his face. Natasha had once said that it made him look like a lost puppy and so he always tries to hide it as best he can. He has a feeling he's not doing so well at the moment.

"Images in black, white, and grey bother you?" Thor asks, looking just as serious as the others. Steve nods slowly. "Why?"

"Because my time... it wasn't grey. It wasn't dull and it wasn't old." But it is, it just isn't so long ago and old to Steve. "Everything was as bright and colorful and vivid as it is today. A person's face isn't grey, skin isn't grey. Not unless they're dead." And perhaps his melancholy isn't as far from him as he thought because with humorless laugh he mumbles, "Though I suppose it's not wrong. They're all dead."

There's silence which fills the room and he knows they'd all heard and that just then was another time when he should have just kept his mouth shut. "Sorr–"

"Open the box, it's for you," Bruce orders, and he sounds like he does when he's ordering him to rest after a mission. He's unsure, reaching to the box, but Natasha nods encouragingly so he pulls the red ribbon out of its neat bow.

Sliding the cover off and placing it under the box, he looks in and finds all sorts of art supplies. There are snow white canvases, a multitude of brushes, paints, pastels... As a kid he'd only ever dreamed of having so many supplies at his disposal and now there's a whole box of them. He picks up a paintbrush almost reverently, running a finger across the fanned out bristles. He doesn't see a reason for the gift however.

Hearing a couple chuckles, he looks up and sees the faces of his teammates, all bearing smiles.

"Why?" he asks though he'd meant to say thank you.

"God, Steve, a good thing – a whole box of good things – comes to you and the first thing you do is question it?" Natasha smacks the back of Tony's head, eliciting an 'ow' and exaggerated glare. "You like drawing a lot, so why no expand to paints and other stuff? We even got you a starter kit!"

Bruce sighs and Steve has a feeling that wasn't what the billionaire was supposed to say.

"Paint them," Clint explains. "All the people that are important, paint them in color or use the pastels or the crayons. They won't have to be grey."

"If the photographs must show them in the lie of grey, then you must tell the truth of color," Thor continues.

Steve's throat closes up a bit, taking in what they've done. When he paints, he'll be make the portraits of the people he knew in full color, rich browns, bright reds and striking greens, he decides. He remembers the colors and life from what was supposedly so long ago, and he'll do what the photographs can't. It's a little thing - the black and white films and photos, but that his friends found a solution for him means more to him than he can even fathom.

"Thank you..." He wants to say more but can't sort through his muddled thoughts fast enough.

This team isn't like his old one. But that's not a bad thing. His past was in color, he always remembers that, but so is his future, and along side his friends, he has a feeling there won't be any grey.

Story inspired by the song The War Was In Color by Carbon Leaf. Check it out, and someone made an awesome fanvid for it too.
Hope you liked it!