onlyforthedream | (no subject)

Teaching helps me keep my mind off of the past few days. Since the 11th, every morning's been a trial. They haven't gotten easier, the way I'd expected them to. The events of that day, that Bucky and I were trapped in, what came after- they follow me around as much as the actual events ever did. The first week I was unbearable to be around, and I knew it, and I tried to make myself as scarce as possible. Bit by bit, I'm getting back to myself, I'm being less distant, I'm brooding less- at least visibly.

But it's not getting easier, and I don't know that it ever will, and the thought is troubling.

So I do what a lot of people seem to. I pile more onto my plate, try to keep busy and distract myself, and teaching is maybe my favorite way of doing so. The class is going well- those who were already trained, or skilled, are advancing in their personal styles and grasp of an artist's tools. Those who took the class for the novelty all know how to sketch, now. They're learning quickly, and well, and doing good work. I'm considering encouraging a collaboration between the drawing and painting classes, though I'm not sure how yet.

I stayed after, today, to work on my own. The extra room in the gallery I teach the classes in is airy and large, and quiet, and I like spending time in it. I just washed the white button down shirt and khakis I'm wearing, but they already have graphite smudges on the collar and rolled up sleeves, a little forest green paint on my belt loop. I don't mind it. I leave the larger piece I'm just starting to sketch out covered and in the back, and small sketchbook tucked into my back pocket, stubby pencil absently turning on my thumb, I head for gallery's exit, entrenched in thoughts of what to do next and where to head, now, if there's any distraction I can conceive of.

The day has been an easy one, the class a good one, and it'll be light outside for another few hours. Time enough for something, though I'm not sure what. I absently scratch my cheekbone with the thumb of the hand my sketching pencil's in, and when I drop it again there's a figure in my peripheral vision, one of the infrequent visitor's to the gallery, I assume. As badly as I thought I needed a distraction, though, I find myself hesitant to look over and risk having to interact.

Maybe I can finish the repairs to Captain Thrace's punching bag. Then maybe she'll let me use it again.

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Trying to imagine any progeny of Howard's -- who were just like him, of course -- was enough to send Peggy's mind spinning.

"Different is a word for it," she agreed. "It will take me some time to get used to everything I've seen and heard."

"It's a lot to take in," I agree.

"Peggy, if there's... If there's anything I can do, any questions I can answer, any help I can offer, please know that I want to." I wasn't ready for this. The offer must seem horribly clumsy, but I honestly don't know what else to do.

"I do know, Steve." She puts her hands together in her lap, resisting the urge to reach out for a simple touch -- a hand on his arm, to still his nerves (and hers, she had to admit), anything. "Thank you for offering, but I honestly don't know what to ask first."

I nod a little, clamping down on the instinct, sudden and grossly inappropriate, to reach over and take one of the hands folded so carefully in her lap.

"You can always find me here, around class time. My house is easy to hunt down, too, once you learn where the streams are. Have you thought about your living arrangements? The compound's a little... well," I say, smiling slightly, "military. There are standing structures available, usually, small homes, but I can introduce you to a man, Duck MacDonald. He helped me put my place up, he's a wonderful carpenter."

I may or may not sound like a rambling idiot, it's hard to tell, objectively, from this side of things.

While he seemed to sure of himself, there was still a spark of the old Steve in him -- the man she'd first met, who could hardly hold a conversation with Peggy if he thought too hard about the right things to say or how to say them.

It put a smile back on her face, and made her feel more at ease.

"I would like that, thank you. I haven't had a home to call my own in years." She still wasn't sure if she could begin to call this island home, but she would damn well try to make herself as comfortable as possible.

"Well, maybe we can fix that," I say, knowing immediately that I do so more softly than I intend to, that I'm-

Staring. Again. I glance briefly at my hands before offering Peggy another quick smile.

Peggy was quiet a moment herself, returning Steve's smile and feeling almost shy. "I would enjoy a tour sometime as well."

"Anytime," I tell her, and feel myself smile a little more in reply to her own.

"...It is so good to see you again."

There weren't many words in the English language more pleasant to hear than those few strung together, and Peggy felt as though a small burden was lifted off her heart. Yes, he didn't know her as well, and yes, they obviously weren't comfortable around each other, but she had no doubt that would eventually pass.

After listening to what she'd fully believed were his last words, Peggy would do anything to have Steve in her life, no matter the capacity.

"And you, Steve."