Bucky doesn’t usually knock. He just shows up. Silent as a shadow, until he isn’t. This time, you hear the knock. Three quick taps, a pause, then two more. The same rhythm he used to use on your bunker door. Back in ‘43 when you were both too stubborn to die. You open the door, half expecting a mission or a favor.

Instead, you find James Buchanan Barnes in civilian clothes, leather jacket, holding a paper bag in one hand and wearing a suspiciously smug expression.

“Brought you something,” he said.

You narrow your eyes. “You never bring gifts.”

“Yeah, well,” he says, brushing past you into the apartment, “you’re not usually tolerable long enough to deserve one.”

That earns him a flick to the back of the head. He doesn’t even flinch.

The two of you are similar in the ways that count. Disoriented by time, anchored by muscle memory. You sit across from him at the kitchen table. He sets the bag between you. You peek inside.

“Are you serious.”

He’s already leaning back, smug as hell. Still not smiling through. “Extra large box. Sixty-four colors. Even has the little sharpener in the back.”

You pull out the box of Crayola crayons and deadpan at him.

“You are unbelievable.”

“And you’re a Marine,” he says with a shrug. “I thought this was the only acceptable form of sustenance.”

You should be mad. Or annoyed. Or throw a spoon at his face. But instead, you’re laughing before you even realize it.

God, it’s been a while since either of you got to laugh like that without a mission going sideways or someone bleeding out nearby. He watches you quietly after the joke fades.

“You remembered,” you said.

“Course I did,” he replies, voice low. “I don’t forget the people who had my back. Even if they have poor taste in crayons and military branches.”

There’s a long silence, but it’s not awkward. You look at the crayons again. The colors are too bright. Too new. It’s stupid. But it means something.