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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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
[ 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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
Are we missing something?
[ He tries like hell to keep any hope out of it, and for once he thinks he actually manages it. ]
no subject
[ 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. ]
no subject
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. ]