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And everybody was gone
Who: Steve Rogers
Where: Out and about, like the man said. Mostly around the residences, probably.
When: February 22nd, throughout the day.
What: See Steve's network post; now watch Steve plow your snow. Or just run into him somewhere out there. Please feel free to tag just there or just here or both as is your druthers; I just felt like doing a twofer.
Warnings: None to start out with, please include any warnings in subjects.
[Open to all/Closed to Natasha]
Memory's a funny thing, though, as he's learned well the past few weeks. It's sometimes just as much muscle memory as recall. Your life can be there in broad strokes, with the details coming in piecemeal as needed. Which isn't so different from how it always works. Steve's not sure he'll be able to tell exactly when he's got it all back; he'll probably just realize one day that he no longer gets stopped in his tracks by the things that do or don't come to mind.
He wonders if this is how it was for Bucky but doesn't know how to ask him that question.
So maybe the feeling in his gut when he looks out the window in the morning expecting to go out on his usual jog is due to not having heat in the middle of a New York winter or being frozen in the Arctic for nearly seventy years, or maybe it's simply thanks to having to change his plans. Either way it's a restless sensation, so he offers his services and changes into warmer clothes, gives Natasha a kiss and goes out through the garage so he can pick up the snow shovel before heading out. He'd gotten a few requests right away, so those sensibly still in their homes may see him heading from one job to another, or in the middle of clearing a driveway nearby. One woman even asked him to safely escort her older kids — still elementary school-aged, students of his he's still getting to know — to the nearest hilly slope for sledding so she could stay home with the baby. He's pretty much happy to oblige anyone today. ]
It's mostly been broad strokes up to now. The pieces he's gotten never tell the whole story. It's more like remembering parts of himself that the pieces eventually fit into — and sometimes they don't, until he remembers more. He's led an unusual life, that's for sure.
It's no different with Natasha. He knows what he feels. The details are trickier to pin down. He remembers being comforted by her, comforting her in turn. Being kissed by her on the cheek, the mouth. Fighting beside her and with her. It all speaks to an intimacy; he just doesn't know if it's the same one they've been sharing here. One real kiss, and even that— it's nothing like what he remembers of a life here, however vague and untrue. He thinks there should be more. If not everything, at least more.
But he'll give it more time. Wait for the details to fit what he knows in his gut and his chest. He doesn't know what else there is to do about it. Everyone's struggling with what's in (or isn't in) their own heads; he's not special. Mostly he tries to keep his mind and body occupied, with this place and with her. So maybe he doesn't mind the snow so much.
He'd cleared their own driveway first, so he comes back in through the garage, stomping and brushing off as much snow as he can, yanking off his boots on the top step before the door and leaving them in the garage before he goes in. In the hallway he shrugs out of his jacket and hangs it, looking around for her or Bucky or the kitten, who's just begun attempts to wander at will into various parts of the house unsupervised. ]
Where: Out and about, like the man said. Mostly around the residences, probably.
When: February 22nd, throughout the day.
What: See Steve's network post; now watch Steve plow your snow. Or just run into him somewhere out there. Please feel free to tag just there or just here or both as is your druthers; I just felt like doing a twofer.
Warnings: None to start out with, please include any warnings in subjects.
[Open to all/Closed to Natasha]
ota; i was just soakin' my head to unrattle my brain[ Steve doesn't actually remember the ice, but as far as he can tell that's nothing new. He hit and his lights went out, and he may as well have died for all he remembers between then and waking up at SHIELD. He thinks if anything was gonna make him hate the cold it'd be living in Brooklyn during the Depression, but that, too, is what it is.
Memory's a funny thing, though, as he's learned well the past few weeks. It's sometimes just as much muscle memory as recall. Your life can be there in broad strokes, with the details coming in piecemeal as needed. Which isn't so different from how it always works. Steve's not sure he'll be able to tell exactly when he's got it all back; he'll probably just realize one day that he no longer gets stopped in his tracks by the things that do or don't come to mind.
He wonders if this is how it was for Bucky but doesn't know how to ask him that question.
So maybe the feeling in his gut when he looks out the window in the morning expecting to go out on his usual jog is due to not having heat in the middle of a New York winter or being frozen in the Arctic for nearly seventy years, or maybe it's simply thanks to having to change his plans. Either way it's a restless sensation, so he offers his services and changes into warmer clothes, gives Natasha a kiss and goes out through the garage so he can pick up the snow shovel before heading out. He'd gotten a few requests right away, so those sensibly still in their homes may see him heading from one job to another, or in the middle of clearing a driveway nearby. One woman even asked him to safely escort her older kids — still elementary school-aged, students of his he's still getting to know — to the nearest hilly slope for sledding so she could stay home with the baby. He's pretty much happy to oblige anyone today. ]
natasha; i'm so surprised you want to dance with me now[ So, yeah, memories.
It's mostly been broad strokes up to now. The pieces he's gotten never tell the whole story. It's more like remembering parts of himself that the pieces eventually fit into — and sometimes they don't, until he remembers more. He's led an unusual life, that's for sure.
It's no different with Natasha. He knows what he feels. The details are trickier to pin down. He remembers being comforted by her, comforting her in turn. Being kissed by her on the cheek, the mouth. Fighting beside her and with her. It all speaks to an intimacy; he just doesn't know if it's the same one they've been sharing here. One real kiss, and even that— it's nothing like what he remembers of a life here, however vague and untrue. He thinks there should be more. If not everything, at least more.
But he'll give it more time. Wait for the details to fit what he knows in his gut and his chest. He doesn't know what else there is to do about it. Everyone's struggling with what's in (or isn't in) their own heads; he's not special. Mostly he tries to keep his mind and body occupied, with this place and with her. So maybe he doesn't mind the snow so much.
He'd cleared their own driveway first, so he comes back in through the garage, stomping and brushing off as much snow as he can, yanking off his boots on the top step before the door and leaving them in the garage before he goes in. In the hallway he shrugs out of his jacket and hangs it, looking around for her or Bucky or the kitten, who's just begun attempts to wander at will into various parts of the house unsupervised. ]
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So, he should've left a message with the man who offered to clear out the snow. But it seems Jefferson's too impatient for even that. Instead, he gets dressed up in his usual layers-- dress shirt, waistcoat, scarf-- and throws on a dark coat, gloves, and snow boots (a bit at odds with the rest of the outfit, but what does he care?) and trudges outside.
Of course, when coming up with this brilliant idea, he didn't really think on what he'd do after he set foot outside, in the snow. Which goes about halfway up his body, considering there's over three feet of it and he doesn't even break six feet, himself.
Which just means he's stuck at the doorway, kicking at the snow in frustration, when he sees Steve outside with his shovel, finishing up with a neighbor's driveway. He waves, trying to get the other man's attention. ]
Hey! I could use a hand.
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But he realizes quickly that this is some other man, though the resemblance is still a little uncanny. It's not an altogether unfamiliar feeling, though, a mistake that for his own part he knows he's made before. Looking through a crowd and seeing someone who didn't want to be found — seeing what he wanted to see.
Only there's no one else out right now save for the two of them, and therefore no mistaking that the waving is for Steve's benefit, at least. ]
Whaddya need? [ He calls it out and bends over again to dig underneath the last few mounds of snow in his way. ]
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Ah-- well. I was hoping to go for a walk, but I underestimated how much snow there would be... [ There's a little, awkward pause, before he adds, as if to explain: ] I usually pay people to take care of this. [ That much he knows for certain, given how apprehensive it makes him to set foot outside. ] So... I could pay you?
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[ Dumping the last of the snow onto one of the supersoldier-made mounds to either side of the driveway, Steve begins to make his way over to Jefferson. He manages to make it look easy to trudge through three feet of snow in a few strides, and— well, if Jefferson comes out of the house any farther he'll see there are paths cleared along the street on both sides as far as the eye can see, small parallel valleys of snow and asphalt that even curve around the nearest bend in the road to the block beyond. Half the drives in the block have been shoveled, too, and it's been less than two hours since Steve offered his services. ]
Got anyplace in particular in mind?
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Oh... [ The woods. That's where he'd like to go-- not these particular woods, but some other forest somewhere... ] Nowhere in particular. I thought I might wander around Main Street.
[ He fixes Steve with a curious look. ]
Was there someone else out here helping you? [ HOW CAN ONE MAN SHOVEL SO MUCH SNOW ALREADY? ]
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It's a little ways, but it shouldn't be a problem if you don't mind taking your time. [ He gives him a slightly wry smile at that, inviting him in on the joke. ] People are gonna need to get to the middle of town soon anyway.
[ He indicates the garage next to them with a tilt of his chin, where presumably live the tools for dealing with this sort of weather. ] If you've got a shovel you could give me a hand.
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But. No. No, he hasn't been outside in days. He's not going to run back in and hide, not when he's finally taken this step. So he shoves his hands in his pockets and shrugs, and when he opens his mouth to start lying, it comes alarmingly easily to him. ]
Ah... I'm afraid don't. [ He actually manages to look chagrined at the admission. ] It's one of the many things Howard's broken recently.
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I can knock on the door when I'm done here, if you wanna wait where it's warm. [ He hefts the shovel into his hand from where he'd stuck it in the snow beside them, already turning halfway to give the driveway a glance. It's not any different than the dozen or so drives he's cleared already, though. ]
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[Pucci can't help but feel his current perspective is terribly skewed. There are two beliefs in his mind, both equally strong; he isn't sure which one is real, some days, but mostly he is, and isn't sure he can believe that reality. He's restless. It feels like there's some manner of predator prowling the inside of his skull. It feels less like he's losing his mind and more like he's trying to figure out which direction to go in in order to find it again.]
[The presence of good-hearted men is somehow a frustration to him right now. It shouldn't be--but here we are. He finds himself aggravated by the doings of good deeds even as he plans more into his calendar. Peering out the window of his (their) home has his brows twitching together, and it takes him far too long to decide to wrap up tightly and step outside.]
Steve, [he says as he closes the space between them--Steve is clearing out yet another driveway, of course he is.] Have you let yourself rest at all today?
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It's also not the first time — and probably won't be the last — that his persistence has been an aggravation to those around him. He knows plenty about himself to know that. He's just not sure he could claim it's why he's out here, at this, when most everyone else seems content to stay inside and keep warm.
So Steve turns around at his name, back straightening from the angle at which he'd been digging the shovel into the packed snow with seemingly little effort otherwise. He's not bundled up so tightly himself, just a sweater and a jacket and boots, presumably with warm socks; his head and hands are bare. ] Father.
[ The greeting is reserved, as it follows Pucci's question, but still respectful. He wants to lean over his shovel again before he answers, but he was raised to stand and remain standing for clergy. It's more or less instinctive at this point. ]
Turns out I don't need much of that.
i'm sad already :(
She can't lead him on, let him continue thinking they were something when they weren't. They were partners, of course, but not in the sense they'd been living the past few weeks. Domesticity in general wasn't a part of their world. To continue to live it is nothing more than a lie, and Natasha lives and breathes and deals in lies, but she can't lie to him. Not anymore.
He's out in the cold and snow, and she's been in the kitchen the entire time, standing at the counter, staring out at the snowfall and the blinding white dunes rising outside of the window. The coffee pot is nearby and it's one of the things she can touch in the kitchen without burning it, so when she hears him stomping off in the garage, she moves from her place to grab his favorite coffee mug, pouring it to the top. Black. Like he likes it. Something she's always known and just learned, a feeling that makes her uncomfortable in her gut now that she knows part of it isn't real. Their feelings, this house, this life, none of it was real.
Right?
She steps out of the kitchen, mug in hand, and offers it to him as she approaches him, body language subdued, her voice quiet. ] Thought you might be cold.
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Thank you, [ he murmurs, tone less intimate than— well, something he's been trying not to think about. Matching hers, though she's clearly way ahead of him there. He wraps his hands around the mug, turning it absently a couple of times to distribute the heat, no buffer there between it and his skin but his hands cold enough that he doesn't really want to put it down.
He knows what he might usually say here. At least what he would've said at any point over the past few weeks. You were waiting for me? Not really a question, just a hopeful prelude to something more. But if he asks it now it will only beg a real answer. He looks down at the mug instead, then back to her. ]
You don't have to worry about me.
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It's not something she wants to think about.
She gives him a bit of a crooked smile in response, shakes her head slightly. ] I do anyway. You deserve to have people to worry about you.
[ She pauses. ] You don't need to be alone.
[ It's meant to be a clue, one he'll understand. She knows, now, who they are, what they've done, what their actual relationship is. What it should be. And it isn't this. ]
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I'm not.
[ It's far from a romantic declaration. Maybe it's even an out after all, if it's how she wants to take it. But it's not how he means it. He doesn't give her the chance to make a liar out of him, though, not to his face, not yet. He presses his fingers hard to the mug and sidesteps around her to move into the living room. Presumably because it's warmer in there, nearer the fireplace. He's tired of these things always happening in the cold and the snow. Maybe it's why he spent so long out there today — trying to salvage something good out of it, if it's not gonna be this.
Should've stayed out there longer, Rogers. ]
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But it doesn't change her mind — if anything it just spurns her on. She's already done too much damage, maybe she can repair this friendship if she works quickly.
She follows him, stopping at the edge. ] Steve.
[ But she doesn't know what to say after that. She's always tried to be honest with him after the fall of Hydra, there's no point in stopping that now, but honesty can be cruel. It's not a cruelty she normally shies from — but this is different. She's already hurt him. She doesn't want to keep doing it. So against her better judgement, she hesitates. Doesn't say what she's thinking. ]
Do you need anything?
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He's not expecting the kindness of it, though, and it's almost worse than if she'd just marched in after him and broken it off right where they're standing, however far apart that is. Or when he'd first walked through the door, for the love of God. Only a few moments ago he'd only wanted to delay the inevitable, what he can read clear enough on her face. This catches him at an angle; it's a reminder of why he cares for her so much in the first place, and he doesn't think he can stand it. To make her drag it out only because she doesn't want to hurt him.
He'd stood in front of the fireplace, arms more or less crossed with the mug resting against his bicep. He's not looking at her now, but he swallows and pushes a breath through his nose. ]
Nat.
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I can't try to care about you now?
[ Her tone borders on anger — she still cares about him, still worries, despite his attempts towards the contrary, now and back during their friendship elsewhere. Wanting to put a stop to a relationship that shouldn't be happening, one neither of them really got a say in doesn't change that. ]
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Not if you have to try.
[ It's unfair of him, though, and he knows it. He regrets it the moment it comes out of his mouth; he's also too angry to immediately take it back, and both of these things keep his back stiff and straight in her line of sight where he can feel her gaze. He knows— there are other things, the details having mostly returned to him (funny how the things most recent in memory have been the slowest to come), but the feeling of them is clear as a whistle from the other side of a canyon. He knows the hurt's there, but it's still far away. He has no excuse for treating her like this now.
He turns most of the way around, looks at her with apology writ across his expression, though he doesn't let his arms down yet. ]
Do you want me to leave?
[ He doesn't know where he'd go or how to go about imposing on anyone this late in the day, but he's not really worried about that part right now. ]
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[ Even the idea that he'd suggest that is absurd, and she wants to step forward into the room, go stand next to him, but she doesn't belong there anymore. ] Why would I want that, that's not—
[ She stops herself, closing her eyes, breathing out her nose in a sigh, because this is not going how it should.
(She can almost hear the ambulance sirens, again. The distance then is probably about the same now, she wagers. Funny that this is how it's always going to end — apart.) ]
I'm not telling you to leave. But we can't go on pretending.
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He knows what she feels like against him. He knows it as something comfortably rooted in his bones, and he knows it as something he's never had before that he thinks he'd very much like to keep. Seems they're past that now though, if it was ever on the table, so forgive him if he's going to lean on her for the boundaries here, because she'd asked him what they were and this is where he'd led them. ]
I'll take the guest room then.
[ He thinks he has memories of sleeping there before. A consequence of a life together that they can't actually claim. The coffee she gave him has already cooled despite the fire — the ceiling is high and the heat tends to go up rather than out — and it will need to be heated up again if he wants to drink it. He unfolds his arms to rest the mug on a coaster on the coffee table. ]
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She flexes her fingers, uncrosses her arms and shakes her head. ] Don't bother. I'll start moving my stuff.
[ She drops her arms and turns, leaving. ]
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She's almost out of sight around the corner before he can do anything but stare after her, taking a step in her direction as he calls her name. ]
Natasha.
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She can't reliably say she's only angry at him. Pushing her away like this isn't surprising in the least, but it still hurts. And after her attempt to keep his hurt to a minimum— but that's not the only reason. She's angry at herself for letting it go so long. Doing something you wouldn't normally do, because someone or something has rewired your brain to want it.
It makes her a little sick to her stomach. And it isn't fair to Steve. So her anger isn't just pointed at him, even if it seems that way. And even if he isn't a terrible target, right now. ]
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Are we missing something?
[ He tries like hell to keep any hope out of it, and for once he thinks he actually manages it. ]
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[ It's less acidic than it probably could be, but she doesn't regret that. She watches him, glances away once when she hears the kitten batting around his catnip mouse, and then back to him. She tries to smile at him, and fails. ]
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He's just not sure there's any going back for him. But that's not her problem.
His own gaze goes toward the small sounds of scuffling when hers does, and it stays there in an absent kind of way when she looks back to him. A smile would've fallen flat anyway. He can still feel her eyes on him, and he looks down before speaking. ] Just let me grab a change of clothes first.
[ He's keenly aware of her as he moves past, even though the space around her to the hallway is wide and open. ]
hi mister rogers 'u'
'think warm thoughts, shortcake!' drifts down from the second storey window in encouragement. a little hard to manage when he's almost up to his hips in frozen water, but prompto opts to focus on wiggling free of his icy confinement instead. the sooner he can get out of here, the sooner he can get this grocery run done and over with. sure, there were supposed to be volunteers available to pick stuff up for residents, but the blond doubts their selection would be as comprehensive as the list he's gotten from ignis.
no biggie, though. as long as he gets out of this snow, he'll be fine. )
you can just call him steve now prompto!!! :<
Everything seems quiet at first, until Steve hears the sounds of struggling and so makes his way around to the back. He stops briefly when he sees Prompto there and looks up with a huff that crystallizes in the air ahead of his mouth. The windows are all closed now, but there's only one way for him to have made it to his current position with the snow blocking all possible routes out below.
Steve looks down again and lifts an arm to push the shovel straight down into a previously unmarred drift of snow, leaving it there with the handle sticking out vertically so he can trudge and crunch his way to Prompto, seeming none the worse for wear or even out of breath when he reaches him. ]
Can I give you a hand, son?
he can't just call his ex-teacher by his first name das rude
( but it's a familiar face that has him smiling as soon as he's recovered, and the wave he gives is slightly awkward from his position but no less enthusiastic. )
Mr Rogers! Hi! Um. Yeah, maybe... haha -- I was almost ready to dig myself outta here.
fine then you get introspection
It's not the formality or respect of the thing, either — he's pretty sure if any of these kids were calling him by his rank he wouldn't have to think twice about it. There's really nothing to be done about it, for the most part, but with Prompto . . . ]
Tell you what. [ He rests his hands on his hips and gives Prompto a considering look. ] I'll help you outta here if you can tell me you'll try to call me Steve at least once today.
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I'll take it.
[ He trudges forward another step so he's within Prompto's reach and maneuvers his body so they're more or less side by side. His body is at an odd angle against the slope of the small hill where Prompto is stuck, but he doesn't want to use the shovel and accidentally take off a foot by striking blindly through the drift. ] Here, grab a hold.
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There'd been a few days when he didn't remember the Winter Soldier, when he was something resembling the Bucky Barnes who died a whole lifetime ago. The one who'd been a loyal friend, a good son, a big brother. A war hero. The kind of guy who gets a memorial in the Smithsonian. He wasn't entirely that man, not with the memories of another, simpler life getting all tangled up in his head, but...
(He knows he shouldn't think this, not after everything he'd been through, how hard he had to fight to pull his memories from the ruined state in which HYDRA had left his mind.)
He can't deny it felt good, forgetting some things, just for a little while.
But the Soldier still is and will always be a part of him. And yeah, nice as it was to be another version of himself for a few days, he knew even then, on some level, that he was incomplete. Without the Soldier, a piece of him was missing. Soon enough, though, more memories started to return to him, triggered by faces and smells and tastes and all sorts of things. The nightmares started, too, bringing with them vague images and impressions of the Winter Soldier.
As Bucky pieced his life back together, bit by bit, the good and the godawful, he started to feel whole again. But there was also the guilt, the shame, the sick, sharp twist in his gut whenever he could see himself pulling a trigger or choking the life out of someone on HYDRA's orders. His hands, his body, his training, cutting down lives and shaping the century. Every mission, leaving the world a worse place than he found it.
He starts to avoid home, the more he remembers. When he's around, he forces a smile and some strained conversations about nothing. He tries not to make it awkward, and tries, for as long as he can, to hold on to the man he was when he woke up in the hospital. Sometimes he tells himself he does it for Steve, to be the friend he deserves... But he knows that's a load of crap. He does it for himself, just as he ran away and evaded all attempts to find him for the past two years.
Bucky thinks about the fake doctor's words often-- 'You fear that if you open your mouth, the horrors might never stop'-- and it's true, and he hates that it's true. He wishes it wasn't, that he could just sit Steve down and tell him why he ran. But how can he even begin to tell his best friend (Are they even that anymore?) what it's like to see his own fist trying its damnedest to break his face open, over and over again?
If it wasn't for the snowstorm, Bucky would've kept up his routine of avoidance. He still could, really, if he was determined enough to trudge through several feet of snow. But it isn't as if he has anywhere to go. So he keeps busy with household tasks and catching up on his reading, at least until he can't ignore the fact that there's something wrong here.
Well. Something more than the usual levels of wrong.
After a quick check around the house, it isn't long before he finds Steve in the basement, cleaning up the remnants of one of their punching bags. He stands there, halfway down the steps, watching Steve for a moment. He could make a joke, try to defuse the situation, but... ]
Do you need a hand with that?
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The scrape of sand and bristles is enough to cover Bucky's descent — not that he makes much noise these days, when he's around. So he takes Steve a little by surprise, though he turns back to his task a couple seconds after looking in Bucky's direction and shaking his head in a no. ]
I got it.
[ Speaking of shameful thoughts: for a moment, however brief, Steve wishes Bucky would just leave him alone, like he's been doing. It passes as quickly as it comes, leaving Steve no more or less weary than he was a minute ago. He's tried damned hard not to resent Bucky for keeping himself hidden the past couple years, and for the most part, moments of inevitable frustration aside, he's succeeded. God knows Bucky never asked Steve to go chasing after him. He understands it. He's had a lot of time to understand it. But the fact is if they weren't here, Bucky would be frozen in a tube in Wakanda right now, and Steve's not sure how many more times he can just let him go.
(The answer is as many times as Bucky needs him to. Steve knows that as well as he knows his own name.)
It's just a bad time. ]
—if you could just hold the bag open, Buck.
[ He pushes up from his crouch so he's standing, looking toward his friend on the staircase like he's not sure he'll actually come down, in spite of the offer. ]
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Now look at them. Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes, in the future, and it's not the world that the Stark Expo promised.
Before, he'd remind Steve that just because you can go at things on your own, it didn't mean you had to. Now, he stands on the stairs, silent, a little uncertain as to whether he should stay or head back up, until Steve shifts gears and takes him up on the offer. Then he starts down the rest of the way, crouching down to hold the garbage bag open for his friend. ]
So... What'd that punching bag ever do to you? [ He glances up at Steve, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Look, he's trying. ]
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[ The joke will have to do for an attempt at returning the smile, since his mouth only seems capable of pulling tight in something more of a grimace. He looks away and drops the bottom of the broom back to the floor, crouching down again beside Bucky and getting back to it. At this point it's still more shoveling the dustpan under the pile of sand and using the sides of the bristles to prevent the mess from just getting pushed farther across the floor. He's been doing a lot of this today. ] Don't worry, I'll buy a new one.
[ He doesn't really think it's what Bucky's asking, but he's also not sure how much he really wants to know. Steve supposes he ought to know anyway; it's his house, too, and he has to live with the both of them. He's just never been one for spilling his guts, not even to Bucky, not even when they were kids. He sure as hell doesn't know how to start now, but he's not up for making Bucky drag it out of him, either, if he even would.
After a minute, he says, ] Nat and I broke it off. [ He doesn't look up from his task, but he does stand a little abruptly to reach for the bag, unhooking it and letting what will fall to the ground do so and dropping the rest into the garbage bag. No point doing the work to make the floor spotless if more sand's just gonna end up on it. Nat and I, like it was a mutual decision. Well, he's never been without his pride. Bucky can probably read between the lines anyway. ]
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He lets the next minute go by in silence. Whatever's eating at Steve, he doesn't know, exactly, but he knows there are a lot of contenders. It's not easy for any of them, living like this, not knowing what exactly's going on here or back home. And besides that, besides the intrusive memories of a life spent in this town, there's every unresolved matter from home hanging in the air, artfully avoided at all costs. Any number of things could have Steve frustrated enough to retreat down here to work it off himself. He never was one for opening the emotional floodgates-- hell, neither was Bucky, though he could be a little more open and pushy about it than his friend. But even that's harder now after he spent so long being made to forget how to even be human.
Bucky looks up again when Steve starts to let him in on what happened, that he and Nat broke it off. If it weren't for the fact that he always chooses his words carefully when alluding to their real lives, he might ask if that's really so surprising, considering. They hadn't been a couple, really, before Wayward Pines, in all of its strangeness, convinced them they were.
But, in all honesty, he gets it. Their memories of this town certainly feel real, and as far as those memories are concerned, Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff were practically destined to be together from the day they all met on the playground.
And he knows, better than anyone, what it's like to remember doing things he had no control over. To see the Soldier's missions play out with his own eyes. Of course, what Steve and Natasha are going through isn't quite like that, but he wonders, in this moment, if Steve can now truly understand where he was coming from in their talk on the quinjet. (I know. But I did it.)
A moment passes as he seems to absorb the news. ]
I thought things were going well. What changed? [ It may be a loaded question, but he asks it anyway. ]
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Steve looks away and up, fingers curling into fists even as he steps over the pile of sand on the floor. It doesn't prevent new grains of sand from sticking to the soles of his feet, but that's a lost cause anyway, and he leaves a small trail in his wake as he moves to the center of the room, raising his hand to the smoke detector that Natasha had showed them that first day. The side of his fist cracks the plastic apart, a couple pieces falling to the floor, and he reaches between what remains to pull the camera out, ripping it from the connecting wires with a tug. It's dealt with just as swiftly in his palm, and Steve walks back over to Bucky, dropping the remnants of lens and casing into the bag. ]
You know damn well what.
[ He leans down to pick the broom handle up from the floor and does his best to gather the sand he tracked back toward the uneven pile. ]
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But for now, they can speak freely. Bucky glances down at the remains of the camera as it goes in the garbage bag, then watches Steve sweep up the remaining traces of sand. ]
Yeah. I know. [ The bag seems to have enough in it now that it'll stay open on its own, so Bucky leaves it to stand back up to his full height. ] But you had to have seen it coming, Steve.
[ There you go, there's what he wanted to say initially, with none of that feigned surprise. And it's not that he's unsympathetic-- he's far from unsympathetic, and he tries to convey that with his voice, even if his words sound blunt. ]
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Yeah. I just— [ thought I was in love. ] I was gonna give it more time. [ He's not sure what kind of man that makes him. There's still sand on the floor, but Bucky is standing and facing him for once, and Steve doesn't actually want to talk about Natasha. He looks behind him to rest the broom against the wall. ] Got nothin' but, pal.
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Must be lonely. So yeah, Bucky can see why Steve would want to keep it going. He nods, his eyes drifting down to the floor for a moment. ]
Well... Her loss, right? [ He offers a weak, wry smile. It's the kind of thing he's said before, and he always meant it whenever a gal would brush his friend off before he even had a chance to put his foot in his mouth. But this thing with Natasha, it's nothing like those old, awkward exploits back in Brooklyn. Seriously, he adds: ] It felt real, didn't it. [ It's not quite a question. Tilting his head a little, he adds: ] Did you feel like this before?
[ This seems to be the first time it even occurs to him, the possibility that Steve's feelings for Natasha might not have been entirely imposed on him by whatever's going on in this town. ]
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I just wanted to hold onto the friends I had.
[ It sounds petty and accusing and Steve lets out a breath. He's been speaking in code since they got here, anything true he's had to say made untrustworthy just by dint of that alone. He hates it, he's no good at it, and it chafes at his soul but apparently sticks there well enough even when the camera's gone. ] And I'm not such a good one to be around right now.
[ It's less of an apology than an invitation for Bucky to get the hell out of dodge, if it's what he wants. ]
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[ He stops short, sucking in a breath, not even sure how he was going to finish that remark. Her. Me. Us. It feels like a hollow sentiment when he can't speak for Natasha and knows he's barely been present, himself. Because of the cameras, Steve's a lot more likely to get a different Bucky Barnes than the one he's talking to right now. Sparing a quick glance at the trash bag, Bucky soon sets his gaze back on Steve, fixing him with a serious look. ]
You don't have to be. [ Not like Bucky's been a great friend lately, either. Besides, with their history, they've racked up enough points with each other that they can afford to be less than their best sometimes. It's just that Bucky's pretty sure he used up all of his, going into hiding, being so much trouble when he was finally flushed out. ] I'm still here. [ It's easier to say this time. He manages without any hesitation. ] And you took out the camera, so you might as well make it count.
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He's not sure he can bring himself to ask the question again in such quick succession, even if Bucky's not gonna be breaking up with him any time soon. He's wondered if there's some memory after what he's got from Wakanda that can explain Bucky being out of the ice, but there's just the raft and then nothing. He remembers enough now that the things that don't come back easily are just foggy and confusing, rather than complete blanks. So no, he's not missing anything. Bucky never chose to stay at his side, before this place; neither did Natasha. He doesn't begrudge either of them their choices if by his side isn't where they need to be, and it's why he hadn't fought Bucky going in the tube. But there was a reason he couldn't finish that sentence just now. ]
They never made a lick of difference to me, Buck. If there's something you want me to say you just gotta be around to hear it.
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But it doesn't mean he's ready to have this talk. He'd put it off longer if it was solely up to him, but it's not; that's not how friendship works. These past couple of weeks, they've been a crash course in remembering what it's like to have that. This conversation might be painful, but it needs to happen. ]
I know. [ It's only two reluctant words, but they carry an undercurrent of guilt that lingers heavily between them. ] But I don't even know what I want you to say.
[ Because everything about him, about the past seventy years, is just so messy, so complicated, so ugly. ]
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[ He'll find the words, if he has to, and he's always been willing to give Bucky time to come by his own in due time if he could just get Bucky to stop running. They have all the time in the world if Steve can manage that, but so far he hasn't, not even trapped in the same small town together. Steve can't exactly blame him — he's got his own guilt to contend with, after all. But it's not up to Bucky to absolve that, just for Steve to live with.
He takes a breath, letting it brace up against all those old (and new) hurts, giving Bucky a small smile. ]
Used to be easier, huh?
[ Not everything. Not even most things. But the two of them, that'd been one of the few constants. It's not nostalgia so much as a statement of fact. ]