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A Pack of Sharpies

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Steve walked back into the dingy motel room, wearing a dark hat, sunglasses and a gray hoodie over an old t-shirt. The whole ensemble came courtesy of a quick trip into a nearby Goodwill store. 

He fished his hand into the plastic Wal-Mart bag, resisting the urge to lift it all up to his face, so he could scratch at the lengthening stubble on his chin. 

Shit. He forgot the razors. 

He tossed the box of hair dye to Nat, then droped the bag on the scratched-up little table by the window, falling into the rolling chair beside it. He dumped everything out. 

It wasn’t much, really. A couple bottles of blue Gatorade, a bag of that cheddar popcorn Sam likes, some teriyaki jerky, a roll of duct tape, and a pack of black Sharpies. 

Steve sighed and opened up the markers, letting them roll out onto the table. 

His… suit… was laying on the near bed.

Coulson had called it a uniform. So had he, back when he’d first put something like it on. 

A uniform stood for something. And he’d worn it back then, just as he’d worn his regular army uniform, like any other soldier. As silly as it seemed, he kept wearing it. Because Coulson’d had some points, really. 

There was something to symbols, after all. 

Steve pulled the cap off one of the markers and got up, sitting on the bed and pulling the uniform toward his knee. He ran his fingers over the raised edges of the silver-white star over the chest. 

He started coloring it in, with slow, short strokes and letting the ink dry before going over it again. Blacking it out. 

He felt Sam step over to the foot of the bed. Steve’s hand paused, but he didn’t look up. 

He swallowed. “We’re incognito, now,” he said. The shadow over the bed showed Sam nod a bit before sitting down on the other side of the laid out uniform. 

“True,” Sam agreed. “We could just get some ski masks and trench coats, though.” 

Steve had to look up to roll his eyes. Sam grinned. 

“We’re not criminals,” Steve said. 

“Breaking me out of prison sort of tells a different story,” Sam said. “Thanks again for that, by the way.” 

Steve shook his head. “You shouldn’t have been there in the first place.”  

Sam shrugged, then reached over to the table and grabbed a Sharpie, popping the cap off. 

“So just the, uh…” he waved his hand, twirling the Sharpie. “Like… spangly bits, then?”

Steve smiled. “Yeah. I guess the spangly bits.”

They’d just be covered up. But not gone.