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Entry tags:
Up above aliens hover
Who: Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes
Where: 5031, Bucky's room
When: Backdated to V-E day/May 8th because dates are hard.
What: A couple of drunk old guys.
Warnings: There's probably no proof to measure the substance they're imbibing. Don't try it at home, kids.
[Closed]
[ There are a lot of important dates in Steve's past. He's a relic of history; it'd be hard for there not to be. He doesn't observe most of them — hell, he would've let his own birthday last month pass without comment if his friends hadn't had other ideas — since to do so would only be a form of grieving, and he does enough of that. He can't live in a constant state of being incapacitated. Those days happened, and best to leave it at that where he can.
Today is different, probably because he wasn't around to see it, and it covers all the rest. He never got to go home. He never can, because that place doesn't exist anymore, and there's nothing that will ever quite make up for that, no matter what he's tried to tell himself, on occasion. He'd managed to put off the observation for a couple of months by whatever explanation exists to account for the shift in dates here (not just dates, but seasons, and after finding that wing with the others he has his niggling suspicions), but that doesn't keep Steve from being aware that it's approaching.
The other difference this time around is, of course, Bucky.
It's one of those days when they're all busy and scattered, all making it back to the house at different times. So for now it's just him and Buck. Steve stashed the bottle in his and Natasha's bedroom — not hidden, just . . . out of the way, and he goes to grab it now. Things are quiet, and the sun is glaringly bright but orange and low through the west-facing windows, which seems like as good a time as any. He heads upstairs to Bucky's room and knocks on the doorframe, less for permission than to simply say hello. He holds up the bottle, free of labels or any other identifying information, for that matter, though the bottle itself is certainly evocative on its own. ]
Found this on the doorstep. Thought we might drink it, find out what it is.
[ He's being a punk; he knows exactly what it is. ]
Where: 5031, Bucky's room
When: Backdated to V-E day/May 8th because dates are hard.
What: A couple of drunk old guys.
Warnings: There's probably no proof to measure the substance they're imbibing. Don't try it at home, kids.
[Closed]
[ There are a lot of important dates in Steve's past. He's a relic of history; it'd be hard for there not to be. He doesn't observe most of them — hell, he would've let his own birthday last month pass without comment if his friends hadn't had other ideas — since to do so would only be a form of grieving, and he does enough of that. He can't live in a constant state of being incapacitated. Those days happened, and best to leave it at that where he can.
Today is different, probably because he wasn't around to see it, and it covers all the rest. He never got to go home. He never can, because that place doesn't exist anymore, and there's nothing that will ever quite make up for that, no matter what he's tried to tell himself, on occasion. He'd managed to put off the observation for a couple of months by whatever explanation exists to account for the shift in dates here (not just dates, but seasons, and after finding that wing with the others he has his niggling suspicions), but that doesn't keep Steve from being aware that it's approaching.
The other difference this time around is, of course, Bucky.
It's one of those days when they're all busy and scattered, all making it back to the house at different times. So for now it's just him and Buck. Steve stashed the bottle in his and Natasha's bedroom — not hidden, just . . . out of the way, and he goes to grab it now. Things are quiet, and the sun is glaringly bright but orange and low through the west-facing windows, which seems like as good a time as any. He heads upstairs to Bucky's room and knocks on the doorframe, less for permission than to simply say hello. He holds up the bottle, free of labels or any other identifying information, for that matter, though the bottle itself is certainly evocative on its own. ]
Found this on the doorstep. Thought we might drink it, find out what it is.
[ He's being a punk; he knows exactly what it is. ]
only a month late, DON'T MIND ME sob
There aren't many special dates he observes anymore, not even a whole lot of holidays. He made an effort, over the last two years, to try to absorb as much information he could about the years he missed to cryofreeze and memory wipes. Catching up had been a double-edged sword, both fascinating and gut-wrenching, particularly with those events he played some part in. Missions put into larger scopes, targets fleshed out into people with loved ones and accomplishments and goals.
He doesn't remember May 8, 1945, in any detail, but he thinks he was still... himself at that time. Still holding on, despite everything they were doing to him. It was before the arm, that much he knows. Had to have been. When he learned, nearly 70 years later, the details about how those last days of the war went down-- read up about it, watched old newsreels-- he'd felt so far removed from it all that there wasn't much of a reaction to be had. They were absorbed like so many facts he learned back in school.
Sergeant Barnes would've celebrated. But he wasn't Sergeant Barnes anymore, not exactly. Maybe he would've felt differently on those days of remembrance if he had anyone around who'd fought on the frontlines with him.
He's reading a book when Steve shows up with a bottle of... something. Sitting up, he fixes his old friend with a curious look, gaze shifting between Steve, then the unmarked bottle, then Steve again. Bucky ducks his head with a laugh. ]
Yeah? [ He extends an arm, making the universal sign for 'gimme' with his fingers. He just wants to take a look! ] Well, at least whatever it is won't make us go blind. Probably. [ Bootleg booze joke? ]
no subject
I've been told it's not meant for mortal men. Not sure what that makes us. It's not bad, though.
[ But his mouth stays curved after he says it — he's not here so they can feel sorry for themselves. Quite the opposite. And maybe it's dropping the ruse more quickly than necessary, if he wants his kicks, but Bucky's always seen right through him anyway. There's little point except for . . . familiarity, maybe, nostalgia, but that only gets them so far. The point is to have something new to look back on and give each other a hard time about. ] Whaddya say?