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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. ]