(no subject)

[onlyforthedream]

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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[youlosetrack]

One night and morning she'd been on this island, and Peggy could still hardly believe it. She hadn't slept at all, though fatigue had begun to wear her down shortly after dawn. She'd spent hours upon hours detailing their strike on Schmidt's fortress, hours preparing to move forward and fight the actual battle, only to arrive here and spend more time learning about the new land she'd inexplicably arrived in. She'd registered with the council, discovered she had indeed arrived in a tropical paradise, met some of the residents and made use the facilities, though the clothes were not to her taste and she ended up wearing the outfit she'd arrived in. All were, of course, ways to put off the one thing she truly wanted to do.

Just like the last few months of her life, it always came back to Steve Rogers.

It wasn't hard to believe he was alive and well here, and even teaching; Steve would thrive no matter where he was sent, and if anyone deserved a vacation, it was surely him. She'd been warned, of course, that he may be different, that those who arrived on the island could come from different times and, even, universes. That didn't matter; she had to see, with her own eyes, that Steve was alive and well.

Once the afternoon rolled around, Peggy found her stomach tied up in a dreadful series of knots, each emotion stranger and more overwhelming than the last. They'd never gone and said anything, nor had they ever had much more than one kiss. A promise to dance after the war didn't seem to hold up against her new situation, and she questioned whether Steve would even feel the same way for her anymore.

The only thing she could do to answer her questions and settle things once and for all would be to face Steve, and Peggy was no coward. She made sure to arrive at the gallery as his class ended, standing just outside the door as students began to leave. Their curious glances merited only a polite smile, and she waited until there was nothing but the sound of him cleaning up, his measured steps moving around the room, before she entered.

"Steve?"