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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. ]
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?