![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
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
[ 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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
[ 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. ]