(catch-all) the storm & the st. paddy's day festival

[officialnotice]

CATCH-ALL: 16TH & 17TH

march 16

THE THUNDER ROLLS

The day starts off atmospherically heavy. The clouds are low, and the temperature is unusually warm, settling in the mid to high 50s (teens in Celsius). Townies are wandering around town in lightweight jackets and hoodies making small talk about the unusual weather, but for the most part they're pleased with the warmth, even if the clouds off in the distance look rather ominous. As the day goes on, the clouds creep closer and the residents seem more inclined to get a roof over their heads and stay there. The midmorning news predicts heavy rainfall by the late afternoon, but the savvier townsfolk say it’s going to be worse than that.

They’re not wrong. The sun drops low, and the winds start to pick up, howling through the trees, bringing with them nickel-size chunks of hail and torrential rains. The darker the night gets, the worse the storm hits Wayward Pines; by the time the sun has set, the sky is obscured with opaque, swirling clouds, the winds snapping trees in half, rattling the power lines, causing electricity to flicker and sometimes go out. The hail pings against the cars not safely parked inside garages, leaving the more exposed with significant damage to paint and windows, and anyone brave (or stupid) enough to step outside is instantly soaked to the skin in cold rain.

The most chilling thing of all isn’t the rain. Anyone trying to wait the weather out on Main Street will hear three wrenching cries coming from the woods, almost like the exact moment a person shreds their vocal cords in a scream. The townies claim not to hear anything unusual. It’s just the wind, they say, and they may be right. The sound as it shrieks through the trees and between buildings is similar enough to cast doubt, and combined with the rain even the most experienced camper would likely get lost trying to find it.

march 17

THERE’S WHISKEY IN THE JAR, OH

Whatever damage was caused by the previous night’s storm has mostly been cleared from Main Street by the early morning of St Patrick's Day. The streets are still a little wet, with plenty of puddles for the more adventurous children (and adults) to splash around in. The air is still a little chilly, but nothing a sweatshirt can’t fix. Nothing’s fully set up until about nine in the morning, but when it is, the St. Patty’s Day celebration gets under way. It’s small, more of a farmers' market or small festival than anything major. There’s food stalls and tables for eating, as well as a few booths where townsfolk are plying their crafts and non-food wares, as well as live music. The festivities during the daylight hours are pretty tame, a PG-rated good time for all.

When the sun sets, the party gets a little more rowdy. Someone busts out the booze and someone else busts out the Mardi Gras beads, and the music gets louder. While many food stalls are still open, the rest have shut down as the street fills with revelers, many of them holding cups half-filled with beer or something a little stronger. This part of the party isn’t for kids, and if anyone underage is spotted they'll quickly get escorted back home by the police — so try not to get caught, yes?

MOD NOTES

This is a catch-all for any and all threads pertaining to the storm (March 16th) and the St. Patrick's Day festival (March 17th)! Details on both of these happenings can be found in the March Newsletter.

PLEASE INCLUDE IN SUBJECT LINE: Character Name, which Day(s) your top-level takes place in, and Open or Closed, to help keep things a bit more organized. (For example: "Joe Biden | 16th & 17th | Open!")

Should you choose to participate in both mini-events, you're welcome to make separate top-level posts for each day or to combine them both into one.

If you have any questions regarding this event, feel free to ask them here.

Comments

[paragon]

[ His reasons were simple: he misses her, too. That this includes the same things preoccupying her — what it had felt like, in every sense, to be with her — he's known from the get-go and has more or less made peace with. At least with their memories also came the fact that he's done this before, and it could be worse. At least she's still here, in his life. Maybe it's not the same, but as far as he can remember, it's better than where they'd left things before they came here.

So that's all it is, an attempt to return the gesture. To spend time with her and remember what that was like before his body constantly seemed to have something to say about it, though the ache in his chest is still pretty much a guarantee, if easy enough to ignore. He tells her he's glad for the pan, but what about the pancakes? and gives a small smile at her protests without any part of it feeling forced. They've done this before. Gone out for a bite and talked about things other than shop. Enjoyed each other's company. He figured it'd been long enough that he could ask for that again without seeming too lovesick or the request too loaded. So far it seems to be going all right.

So when she asks about coffee and dessert, Steve follows her glance upward of a moment ago, then back down and away from her, down the street to check for any oncoming traffic. ]

Sure. [ He turns back to her. ] We've got some time before it starts comin' down. Where to?

[vdova]

[ It's a bittersweet feeling to realize he's not thinking much of it. Glad, that he's not really trying to push it, but a little sad, too. She chalks it up to not being able to trust her own mind, tries to set it aside, but it lingers. She follows his gaze down the street, brow furrowed a little as she considers. She spots the sign not far, and nods towards their left. ] Looks like Java Joe's is open. They've got great cookies.

[ As she would know, no doubt. At his agreement, she starts walking, keeping pace with him, continuing their small talk and banter from dinner — the point isn't what the pancakes are actually like, the point is, of course, that she can make them. Baby steps, Rogers. It feels natural. Real. And she almost doesn't catch herself reaching for his hand as they walk. It itches with the familiar need to hold it, and instead she shoves her hands into her pockets to keep them behaving. He's moved on, she thinks. There's no sense in hurting him further. He doesn't deserve that.

She manages to keep her surface calm, even as her confusion coils within her, slithering out from the place she'd just tried to keep it. The familiarity, the comfort. It's nice. It's something she's wanted for herself — tried to have and failed. Failure didn't make her want it less, but it did make her want to try to have it less. She had a job to do, and still kind of has one, even if (if memory serves her, and it hasn't lately) she's on her own again. At least, she thinks, she's on the right side of the law this time. More or less.

If she were to indulge herself, she'd say she was happy.

She opens the door for them when they reach the coffee shop, looking at him as he heads inside. ] You know, they have a cake here that even puts yours to shame.

[ Playful needling. Not flirting. Or so she tells herself. ]

[paragon]

[ Natasha's always made herself clear. Once he might've even said ad nauseum; that he got it, she was off the table. If she flirted the last thing he was meant to glean from it was romantic interest. Hell, he'd had to fight for so much as friendship. He hadn't minded, though. He's had to fight for a great many things in his time, and none of them have been any less valuable because they were hard won. More, maybe.

So they'd eventually settled into something not so different from before, but with Steve able to give as good as he got, knowing she was in his corner. Call it teasing or flirting; it was all he needed or had ever asked for from her.

Only he thinks he's the one who can't tell the difference anymore, because with all the talk between the restaurant and here, he almost makes a joke about Natasha preferring other men's cooking. It sticks in his throat, and thank God for that, but nothing else immediately comes to replace it, either. He tries to cover for it by casually glancing toward the counter, but he doesn't for a second imagine he's fooling her, even if it would be nice, just this once. ]

Guess I'm not having the cake then. [ It's the best he can do for a rejoinder, apparently. The attempt at a smile in her direction is at least a genuine one. But there's no way it doesn't look like he's suddenly become inordinately sensitive about his baking. Defeated, he asks, ] What are you gonna have?

[vdova]

[ He can't fool her, even when he tries. She knows him well, intimately, now, a fact she remembers at the worst times — like right now, watching him try not to show that he's jealous over cake. Her body remembers how possessive he could get and how much she liked it. At least she's good at suppressing her shiver. Mostly. She's going to at least pretend like he is fooling her. She can give him that much, if she can't give him anything else, and she stands next to him, considering. ] Probably not cake, if you're not having it. The slices are too big for one person.

[ If he wanted to share, though... She's not against the idea. Instead, she hums, glancing over the pastries in the case. ] Pumpkin scones look good.

[ She turns to him. ] What do you think?

[paragon]

[ Too big for one person, right. Like he hasn't watched her pack away far more than one slice of cake, particularly where her sweet tooth's involved, whole packages of Oreos with double the filling gone in one sitting. It's an out, he thinks, and a kindness he's not really sure he wants— but then why bring up sharing in the first place? She was never particularly generous with those Oreos.

Don't get ahead of yourself, Rogers. That's what got this started, remember?

He lets out a quiet breath through his nose, listening to her muse it over with half an ear, but it's not really her question that he answers, mind still turning the first part over and then over again. ]

We can share the cake, Nat. If that's what you want.

[ He can't exactly will himself to wish things weren't so confused between them that even dessert is still, apparently, fraught with meaning. Maybe it's just better than the alternative, which is living with the knowledge that it was really nothing she would've ever chosen for herself. Even the thinnest strand of hope that he's not the only one feeling like something was lost is better than that. ]

[vdova]

[ The suggestion comes as a surprise — yeah, she hinted at it, and yeah, she blatantly made up not being able to eat an entire one on her own. Natasha Romanoff has eaten entire *cakes* on her own, let alone larger slices of the stuff. It was an out — an acknowledgement that the attempt to tease him was still hitting a little too close to home, and in the split second it takes her to process the thought she realizes that she'd let out a little of her own hope, too. Part of her still want this. Her, not some false memory of a life she never really lived. She gives him a smile as her answer, a small enigmatic thing, and steps up to the counter. ] We'll take a slice of the double chocolate, two forks, a black coffee and a white mocha with cinnamon.

[ She doesn't wait for him to pay, sliding her own wallet out of her purse and handing over the cash before he gets a chance to really respond and takes the plate and her coffee when they're presented to her. She leads them both to a small table in the corner of the cafe and sits down, settling for a moment before taking one of the forks, grabbing a bite and pausing her with her fork her in mouth, thinking.

He's healing, but he isn't healed. He still quite clearly feels very much for her, the little flare of jealousy a moment ago more than enough to tell her that. And she can't get any of it out of her mind, the raw intimacy of their relationship — both sexual and not. Bruce's abandonment had hurt, but it had hurt without the knowledge of what she was missing. But here? She knew physically and mentally what it was she had, that feeling like it was something she deserved.

This is more than sharing cake.

Natasha sets her fork down, and takes a breath. ] Steve, I—

[ And there's a loud bang, the building shakes with the force of the wind, and the entire room goes dark. Without the hum of electricity, the rain and hail is loud against the roof and windows, but Natasha can barely make out the tail end of a long, aching, scream, and whatever she had been about to say is gone, replaced by one thought:

What the hell just happened? ]

[paragon]

[ It starts to rain as they get to the counter; at least, that's what Steve presumes, distracted from any soft patter of water on the windows by her smile and his own attempt not to read too much into it. It's not meant to be understood by its very nature, and if there's something she wants him to know, she'll tell him. Still, it's not a check that comes easily to him when he's aware he wants it to mean something, and all the self-control in the world can't suppress the warmth in his chest when she orders for both of them like it's old hat. It's small and stupid, but it's also real, from before this town, and she must know that much.

The rain becomes harder to ignore during the few minutes they wait for their order. They seem to have reached the end of their back and forth over the pancakes and so are waiting in comfortable silence (Steve assumes it's comfortable on her part, anyway). The droplets of water stuck to the window are quickly beginning to stream together, and there's the distinctive rapid clicking of hail against glass. Thinking about it, the clouds had probably been closer than he'd indicated. He hadn't wanted to go home yet either.

By the time they sit he's resigned to them settling in for the long haul, though after he takes his own bite of the cake and glances at her, she seems to barely notice the increasing noise of the storm against the walls and roof. Steve frowns and swallows, about to ask her what's wrong before she speaks, and the fork in his hand lowers closer to the table when she does in that way she has, both intimate and portentous. He's unsure if he's gonna like where any sentence that starts with his name like that will lead — and he knows he's been letting too much out, but he's trying — but then there's the bang and the scream.

Like Natasha, any consideration for where their conversation is left off gets relegated to a far corner of his mind. Even if it weren't suddenly pitch black, he wouldn't be able to see out the windows, the water cascading down the glass in sheets now. ]

Did you hear that? [ He would understand if she hadn't. The wind is shrill and obscuring past the hail bulleting against the outside of the building, but he knows what he heard. He's already halfway to his feet when it comes again, and he's up and to the door in a shot, not looking back to see if Natasha's following him.

—a large part of him still assuming she will be.

He's soaked through in a matter of seconds. The storm is louder out here, the noise immediate and deafening, but also less distorted by the walls of the building, and he pauses to listen for it again, heedless of the hail against his skin.

There. ]

[vdova]

Yeah.

[ She's standing up when he does, and while his attention is focused on the door, hers is on the barista at the counter who is staring out the window. ] What the hell was that?

[ She asks the question just as the second scream sounds, and the barista shakes her head — she doesn't know either, and she doesn't seem inclined to want to find out. Natasha can't blame her; the hail sounds like someone is throwing pebbles at the window, and she turns to look over her shoulder. ] Steve—

[ But he isn't there. A quick glance around, even in the pitch dark on the cafe tells her he isn't, because it lands on the open door, now caught by the wind and hanging open in it. There's already a puddle of water forming on the floor just inside the doorjamb, and she's pretty sure visibility isn't even a half of a mile. So of course he's out there in it, looking for the source. ] Shit.

[ The dessert and coffee forgotten on their table, Natasha heads out into the night after him, wincing as she's pelted with the rain and hail, raising her arm (thankfully shielded by her leather jacket, though her hand isn't exactly protected) to keep the water and ice from her eyes. There's a bright flash of lightning, followed quickly by a loud crack of thunder that causes Natasha's heart to stop briefly with the proximity but it enables her to see his form a few feet away. She's been out here less than a minute and already her hair is clinging to her forehead, small welts forming on her unprotected hands (and, she's sure, under her jeans). ] Steve! We have to get back inside!

[paragon]

[ Steve turns to her, the movement made quick by his already near run, and it's only then that he realizes she wasn't already behind him. He doesn't know why or what the hell she thinks she was doing instead, and it manages to hurt even as he looks away from her toward a third scream. The anguish in his expression is turned firmly in that direction though, because part of him already knows where the sound has been coming from and that he has little to no hope of navigating the woods in this storm. He's just never been very good at accepting those odds.

He looks back. ]

There are people out there, Nat! [ He's angry, even if he only shouts it to be heard over the wind and hail, her name at the tail end nearly cut off by more thunder. In the light that precedes it like the flash of a camera in the dark he sees the way she's protecting herself and why, the ice bouncing harmlessly off of his own skin doing Natasha no such favors. If he had the shield— damn it. Damn it. He steps forward to meet her, grasping her elbow and pulling her in against him, putting his back between her and the worst of the wind. It doesn't do much. ]

You go!

[vdova]

[ She's too shocked by his sudden warmth to really say anything at first. Coupled with the confession she'd been prevented from giving, and the sudden flare of memory of the last time she'd been this close to his body, the flush (that she's grateful he can't really see) that crosses her cheeks is difficult to prevent, so she doesn't try. Natasha closes her eyes, breathing him in—

But this isn't the time or the place, even if her resolve to fix this is steeled. She puts her hands on his chest and pushes back just enough so she can look up at him, wincing a little as the wind whips at her hair and face, his body doing little to protect her from the rain and hail. ]

I'm not leaving you out here by yourself! [ She pitches her voice up to be heard over the thunder and wind, and she silently curses the fact that Thor isn't here to just stop this so they can do their god damn jobs as Avengers. But he's not here, and so that means the job has changed. Putting himself at risk is what got Steve to where he is today, but that doesn't mean it's always going to be the correct solution. She doesn't like the answer she's about to give, but she has to give it. ]

If they're out there in the woods, it's already too late! You dying isn't going to save them! —Ow!

[ Her sentence is punctuated by a larger piece of hail whipping across her face and cheek, and it stings bad enough that Natasha winces in pain, reaching up to touch her face with her index and middle fingers. Her cheek is already soaked from the rain, so she doesn't think anything of the wet she feels until she pulls her hand away and sees the blood.

Shit. ]

[paragon]

[ Her protest about his dying has about as much impact as the hail, which is to say none at all. It takes a lot more than that to kill him — he could stay out in it all night and he couldn't say with certainty that he'd even come out of it bruised. Even so it wouldn't matter, if there are people who need his help, and she knows that.

It's the protest about leaving him alone that gets his attention. He's heard it before more than once in his life, and he knows her, too; she means it, and he doesn't doubt her follow-through. If he goes, so does she, and she can't. That already has his eyes wide in the limited light, some kind of pleading in them not to say that to him, though he wouldn't be able to demand it of her out loud. He's not such a hypocrite.

It makes it easier to see the blood when it starts running down her cheek as quickly as it comes, and Steve makes the choice then without a second thought, pulling her under the nearest cover with the hand still on her arm. There's really nowhere out here completely safe from the storm, but it's better than nothing, and his body makes a more effective shield this way. He reaches up and wipes the blood and water away before he can think better of it, knowing that even if it hurts he won't see her wince. The wound, though not large in his brief glimpse, still begins to weep again immediately. ]

Stay here, I'll get the car.

[ Funny, he'd almost suggested they walk earlier to enjoy the weather — anything not to get in that eyesore — but Natasha had spent most of her day at the studio and he'd wanted to let her get off her feet, even if she never would've complained to him. He's glad for it now, if a little soulsick about his ability to do any good here, in this place. ]

[vdova]

[ He's off before she can even begin a protest, and she leans up against the wall while she waits, head against it, eyes closed. She's mostly out of the inclement weather — at the very least she's not getting pelted anymore, even if it's raining and hail hard enough for her still to be getting a little wet. She'd had to stop herself from leaning into his touch, and when her cheek throbs a little, she reaches back up to trace where his fingers had gone. It likely looks (and feels) worse than it actually is; the damp of her skin isn't doing the wound any favors. It's kind of, she reasons to herself as she checks her fingers in a flash of lightning, like nicking yourself in the shower when you're shaving. It looks like she's losing gallons of blood, but it probably won't even leave a mark.

She can't really hear the car, so when there's the brief flash of headlights as he pulls up, she's startled, wincing a little in the bright light. Natasha doesn't wait, just heads out into the rain and climbs into the passenger side, slamming the door shut and leaning her head back against the head rest in almost one graceful move. The hail and rain is louder than even the thunder on the roof of the car, and she sits quietly as they pull away towards their home for a brief moment, trying to re-collect herself. ]

You're not the only one that would suffer if you got hurt. And don't tell me you can't get hurt. We both know that's not true.

[ She rolls her head over to look at him, suddenly so lonely that she aches with it. She can tell him she won't leave him until she's blue in the face, but she did, didn't she? No wonder, then. What has she got to lose? ]

I miss you.

[paragon]

[ There were days when he was a kid . . . He'd been blessed with a poor constitution and he knew it, everyone knew it and never failed to ask him about his health or offer to help in whatever way they could, but he'd been a kid. He didn't want help, he wanted to play stickball with Bucky and his pals and make it to the manhole cover doubling as first base before the ball did. So he'd do these things he wasn't supposed to do, knowing that if he had an attack he could be resigning his mother to an afternoon of rubbing Steve's back in countless circles while he tried to gasp in wheezing lungfuls of steam over a boiling pot for however many hours it took to subside.

He's never told Natasha that, and now he's not sure he can, at least not like he'd want to, as an intimacy. But he won't tell her he can't be hurt, either. That's not the point. That's never been the point. He just needs to be a man who would try anyway, in spite of being well aware of his own mortality. He wishes she understood that. His lips part before he can really begin to know how to respond, but she speaks again and saves him from needing to make the effort.

The wipers are going as fast as they can, which still isn't nearly fast enough to keep up with the rain, and the moisture from their breath is fogging up the corners of the windshield despite the heater going full blast, still barely warm. It's as good an excuse as any not to look at her. He can feel her eyes on him and knows she can see the effort it takes to swallow past the sudden, aching lump in his throat. He speaks past it, low and just over the noise coming from both outside and inside of the car. ]

That's cruel, Nat.

[ He's in the car, here with her like she'd wanted. He doesn't still need to be convinced. He knows he's asked for her honesty before, but there's such a thing as too much of it, even for him. ]

[vdova]

I know.

[ She doesn't take her eyes off of him, and she feels this rejection deep in her gut, the way it burns like alcohol through her stomach and spine. He may not have moved on from her, but that means nothing towards moving back towards her, either. She was a fool to assume otherwise. Missing him is cruel and selfish and a brutal honesty (something she's not really at all capable of at the best of times, let alone the worst). She's never once lied to spare his feelings and she's not going to start now. He won't look at her and she chalks that up mostly to the rain, but she knows it's not the entire reason and if he can feel her gaze on him then surely he feels it when her eyes narrow just a little, that look she gets when she's scrutinizing a situation to form a plan. She won't — can't — force herself on him if rejecting her is truly his aim.

But is it? ] But I mean it.

[ She doesn't say that she thinks he misses her, too. But it was more than just sharing cake. He has to know that. ] What I wanted to say to you before the power went out is this: I think I made a mistake. If it's too late to admit that, then I accept it. I don't want to be cruel to you. But I've never lied to you, Steve. And I'm not going to start now.

[paragon]

[ For him? Yeah, he knows it was more than just sharing cake. But he kinda figured it always would be and there was nothing for it, at least nothing she'd have to worry about — that doesn't mean he's prepared to assume the same for her. He may know a little something about setting himself up for a fall, but that's one he's still trying to get up from, let alone . . .

Let alone what she's saying to him now.

Sometimes hope feels an awful lot like heartache, like lancing a wound. He glances away from the road toward her, trying to determine if that's what this is. He trusts her, knows she wouldn't lie about this, that he hadn't understood what she was trying to tell him, but that's not the problem. It's one of the few times in his life that he wasn't able to trust himself, and in the end he couldn't blame her for wanting no part of a relationship like that. So he doesn't have an answer for her right away, doesn't know if he's even allowed to call it all square with that. His brow is furrowed, and it doesn't exactly lessen any when he looks away from her again toward the road, turning the wheel into their driveway and lifting his hand to press the button for the garage before he realizes halfway there that it won't work. He breathes out and parks instead, looking at her again. ]

Let's get inside.

[ Wherever this is going, it's not gonna be in this car with his heart keeping fast time with the noise of ice striking the metal. He looks away from her and curls his fingers under the handle for a brief bracing moment before he opens the door to it, getting out and slamming the door behind him. He doesn't head up the walk, though, instead coming around the front of the car until he meets her, reaching for her shoulders and drawing her in close to him again. Not quite letting himself feel anything but the familiarity of moving together in a way that came with long practice well before this place. He makes quick work of the lock and closes the door behind them, the wind and hail and rain still a cacophonous sound against the walls and ceiling but suddenly distanced, muffled. He can hear them both breathing, and he lets her go, letting his arm fall to his side, swallowing. ]

It was Bucky's turn to do the laundry. The towels are probably still in the dryer.

[ He's not at all unaware of the room to their left where he's been sleeping alone these past few weeks, but he goes right, down the hall to the laundry room, pulling open the dryer with its usual slightly unpleasant shriek of metal, his movements only somewhat visible in the dark. (Absently, he remembers that there's a candle and some matches in the bathroom next to them that he can grab.) He straightens up with two towels, handing one to her. They're still warm. ]

[vdova]

[ He doesn't say anything, and she's not sure how to take it. Steve's not the kind of man to sit on his negative emotions — if what she'd said upset him, he'd let her know, and quickly. So rejection is likely not on the table, if anything is at all. He still has her curious, and she follows suit with his silence, remaining quiet even as they pull into the driveway. She lets herself leaning into his touch this time as he grabs her to shield her from the hail, and the muted noise of the weather outside is almost deafening when they reach the inside of the house.

He lets her go, and she moves to unzip her boots, kicking them and her wet socks off as he heads for the laundry room. This time she's behind him pretty quickly, although she gives a glance towards the room they used to share. The concrete of the laundry room is cold on her feet, and in a flash of lightning she can see the muscles of his back and shoulder work under his now (somehow, even tighter) shirt, and she lingers in the doorway, watching him, taking the towel when it's offered, still without a word. She raises it to her face, dries it off and then reaches up to start rubbing at her hair in an attempt to get most of the moisture out of it. But her jeans and jacket are starting to chafe, and—

And he still hasn't told her no. Natasha drops the towel down around her shoulders, grips an end in each hand and draws her gaze up his body. ] We should get out of these wet clothes.

[ She doesn't wait for an answer. She drops her towel and her jacket on the floor, and walks right up to him, skimming her hands up under his shirt to tug it off, dropping it to the floor with the loud 'slap' of wet fabric hitting a hard surface, and reaches her mouth up to his to kiss him softly. ]