12/5/2012
It's been a busy few days at the council office. We'd only just settled back in before the island had turned itself upside down and into a very familiar landscape- just not familiar enough.
Manhattan is almost what it should be, but the little differences are so incredibly jarring. The mansion is there, stately and unbroken, but it's a museum. There are no As engraved in the wrought iron gates. Stark Tower and the Baxter Building aren't where they should be, which is unsettling- the skyline is just that much off.
The bridges don't go anywhere. I've tried. Brooklyn sits quiet across the river, and I can't get to it, which bothers me more than I should let it. Even with all this, though, and the strange specters that populate the city alongside our actual citizens, it's nice. The food is amazing, and a lot of my favorite places are there. Central Park looks glorious in the snow and even though none of it's real, and it makes me a little homesick, I still want to enjoy it.
Not alone, though.
I've got a list as long as my arm of coffee houses, diners, restaurants, museums and views I want to take Peggy to, things I want to show her. We've already been to a few. More, though, my thoughts and concerns turn to Bucky. I worry about him, and about us, our friendship. It's not what it used to be, and that hurts. It's hard enough watching Tony crawl back into a bottle. I'm grateful to know the people here that I do, but I miss my friends, the best of whom is right in front of me.
Well, I'm done with letting it be.
It only takes a minute to pack a couple small, hard snowballs and absently rest them on the hood of the Chevy outside the building Bucky's hut turned into. I tip my head back, counting over, and launch one squarely at the glass.
Manhattan is almost what it should be, but the little differences are so incredibly jarring. The mansion is there, stately and unbroken, but it's a museum. There are no As engraved in the wrought iron gates. Stark Tower and the Baxter Building aren't where they should be, which is unsettling- the skyline is just that much off.
The bridges don't go anywhere. I've tried. Brooklyn sits quiet across the river, and I can't get to it, which bothers me more than I should let it. Even with all this, though, and the strange specters that populate the city alongside our actual citizens, it's nice. The food is amazing, and a lot of my favorite places are there. Central Park looks glorious in the snow and even though none of it's real, and it makes me a little homesick, I still want to enjoy it.
Not alone, though.
I've got a list as long as my arm of coffee houses, diners, restaurants, museums and views I want to take Peggy to, things I want to show her. We've already been to a few. More, though, my thoughts and concerns turn to Bucky. I worry about him, and about us, our friendship. It's not what it used to be, and that hurts. It's hard enough watching Tony crawl back into a bottle. I'm grateful to know the people here that I do, but I miss my friends, the best of whom is right in front of me.
Well, I'm done with letting it be.
It only takes a minute to pack a couple small, hard snowballs and absently rest them on the hood of the Chevy outside the building Bucky's hut turned into. I tip my head back, counting over, and launch one squarely at the glass.
Sign Here to Support Steve Rogers' Nomination Bid for A Third Term on the Council
Council Bid Signatures
(no subject)
The Winchester was gracious enough, in the aftermath of the mess that was Halloween, to let me make off with some of their beer. I get to Bucky's in the early afternoon and wrap my knuckles twice against his door before sitting on the stoop and unpacking the still relatively cold drinks.
It's not much of a celebration, but then, I don't think we really feel like celebrating. Still, the day deserves to be marked.
It's not much of a celebration, but then, I don't think we really feel like celebrating. Still, the day deserves to be marked.
the waiting is always worst
I have, frankly, no idea how long it's been. I have a clean shirt and my leg's been bandaged. I haven't left the chairs set up across the hallway from the door to the clinic. I don't plan to, not until there's some word, some update.
I want to know what's going on in that room. I'm terrified to know what's going on in that room.
With my elbows pressed into my knees and the hands loosely clasped, I run over the day's events in my head, step by step. I go farther back, the last week, the past month. My memory for details is excellent but I cannot for the life of me think what could have triggered this.
Whatever it was, I should have seen it. I should have known. Not that I know how I could have. I recognize this train of thought isn't helpful but I'm so damn tired, and there's nowhere else for the energy to go, the thoughts to turn.
The fact is, I can't do anything for him but wait.
I want to know what's going on in that room. I'm terrified to know what's going on in that room.
With my elbows pressed into my knees and the hands loosely clasped, I run over the day's events in my head, step by step. I go farther back, the last week, the past month. My memory for details is excellent but I cannot for the life of me think what could have triggered this.
Whatever it was, I should have seen it. I should have known. Not that I know how I could have. I recognize this train of thought isn't helpful but I'm so damn tired, and there's nowhere else for the energy to go, the thoughts to turn.
The fact is, I can't do anything for him but wait.
if you can hold on, hold on
This isn't a scene I ever wanted to witness.
The run to the Compound was brutal, and Tony was on his way out to get Xavier when I was on my way in. At some point, I took the Shield off my back and set it on an unoccupied bed.
There are doctors moving deftly from the table Bucky's stretched out on to the sink, or trays of gauze and utensils and back again. I didn't let anyone get near the arm until Dr. McCoy was there. I know the kind of technology he's worked with. He removed it, and I felt something wrench in my gut. I was vaguely aware of someone at my elbow speaking with concern before I shrugged them off and went around to watch them peel away the Winter Soldier's uniform. It would take a soldering iron to cut through it. He's covered in superficial wounds- severe bruising, mostly, damage to his ribs. With the arm gone, they manage all right.
Oh, God, Bucky.
I beg off questions, agree to let McCoy take care of the knife wound in my side after another reprimand I barely register. I'm numb to it, whatever he's doing. I don't bring up the gash on my leg. There's enough blood and dirt that I can't imagine anyone noticing for a while, anyway.
"...you'll want to restrain him," I say, as the thought occurs, though the words are hard to get out. I catch Rory frowning in my peripheral vision, bagging the ruined and blood soaked t-shirt I'd been wearing before depositing it in the trash.
"Just- until-"
There's a sound in the hallway of heavy metal on flooring and I'm up, off the spare bed, ignoring Dr. McCoy's curse of frustration.
"Professor?"
The run to the Compound was brutal, and Tony was on his way out to get Xavier when I was on my way in. At some point, I took the Shield off my back and set it on an unoccupied bed.
There are doctors moving deftly from the table Bucky's stretched out on to the sink, or trays of gauze and utensils and back again. I didn't let anyone get near the arm until Dr. McCoy was there. I know the kind of technology he's worked with. He removed it, and I felt something wrench in my gut. I was vaguely aware of someone at my elbow speaking with concern before I shrugged them off and went around to watch them peel away the Winter Soldier's uniform. It would take a soldering iron to cut through it. He's covered in superficial wounds- severe bruising, mostly, damage to his ribs. With the arm gone, they manage all right.
Oh, God, Bucky.
I beg off questions, agree to let McCoy take care of the knife wound in my side after another reprimand I barely register. I'm numb to it, whatever he's doing. I don't bring up the gash on my leg. There's enough blood and dirt that I can't imagine anyone noticing for a while, anyway.
"...you'll want to restrain him," I say, as the thought occurs, though the words are hard to get out. I catch Rory frowning in my peripheral vision, bagging the ruined and blood soaked t-shirt I'd been wearing before depositing it in the trash.
"Just- until-"
There's a sound in the hallway of heavy metal on flooring and I'm up, off the spare bed, ignoring Dr. McCoy's curse of frustration.
"Professor?"
[Old West]
It's somewhere Bucky's always wanted to go. Timeless wonder, my dad used to say. I can hear the words clear as day, even though my mind had been elsewhere at the time of the discussion. When Bucky told me he wanted to be a park ranger. It doesn't just seem like another lifetime, I think it officially is one.
Having been to the real thing, I have to say, the island's created a 1:1 copy. The fact that I was startled out of my thoughts by it is the reason I'm in front of Bucky's place with two fully loaded packs and a borrowed horse.
If anyone needs to get out of their thoughts, even if just for a few minutes, it's Bucky.
"Bucky!" I call, rapping a hand briefly on the door to the homestead.
"Come on, we're burning daylight!"
Having been to the real thing, I have to say, the island's created a 1:1 copy. The fact that I was startled out of my thoughts by it is the reason I'm in front of Bucky's place with two fully loaded packs and a borrowed horse.
If anyone needs to get out of their thoughts, even if just for a few minutes, it's Bucky.
"Bucky!" I call, rapping a hand briefly on the door to the homestead.
"Come on, we're burning daylight!"
Council Nomination Signatures (Term 2)
Steve would greatly appreciate your support in honoring his nomination for a seat on the council!
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(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.
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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Council Nomination Signatures
I want YOU.... to sign here to endorse Steve's nomination to the council.
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After the Bar
It's not the first time I've carried Bucky, although it's the first time I've had to do so because he tried to drink a bar. I'm not entirely sure what point he was trying to make, but hopefully he feels that he made it- and nothing else, come morning. He's sort of walking- he refused outright any alternative- but I have to say, the bulk of his dead weight is lightened somewhat by the fact that his right cheek is wedged up against my shoulder and the resultant facial expression is more or less priceless.
I only wish I could appreciate the moment for what it looks like- war buddies dragging each other back from a bar. With everything that led up to it, though... To be honest, I don't know what I feel. I'm grateful that Bucky stayed, that he refused to be brushed off or let me go off on my own. I can appreciate the whys of it, but all the same I'll be as grateful to drop him off at Natasha's. I need to get my head clear, I need to wrap my hand where I sliced it on the broken glass, I need to hit something. Not necessarily in that order.
Lifting the hand not anchored around Bucky, I rap twice on the door and then try to drag him a little upright.
"You're home, soldier. Tasha, you in?"
Entry tags:
Final.
It’s a cold Spring day in 1945. I’m about 4,000 miles from my home, riding a stolen motorcycle toward the edge of a cliff, a concrete jetty built out of the stone of an old castle. Directly in front of me is an experimental drone plane, lifting off the runway, winging its way toward turning this war in favor of the Nazis. Directly behind me is my best friend, my brother, and that’s the only reason I think I can do this.
It doesn’t help that I know I can’t, but it doesn’t change anything, either.
People said, after the war, that it had made our country. That World War II was the moment that decided who we were as a generation and shaped the rest of the century.
This is the moment that made us who we are. It’s truer for no one more so than Bucky and me.
“Bucky,” I say. Not the exclamation of all the times before, not the question. We’re about to go over. He’s about to make the fatal leap.
Fateful leap. Either way.
It doesn’t help that I know I can’t, but it doesn’t change anything, either.
People said, after the war, that it had made our country. That World War II was the moment that decided who we were as a generation and shaped the rest of the century.
This is the moment that made us who we are. It’s truer for no one more so than Bucky and me.
“Bucky,” I say. Not the exclamation of all the times before, not the question. We’re about to go over. He’s about to make the fatal leap.
Fateful leap. Either way.
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[After]
My body is still in shock, or the memory of it, when I stagger and catch myself with one hand against a palm. My breath is pulling raggedly in my lungs and throat and every part of me feels raw, wind burned or frozen or scraped. The enormity of what we just went through is already slamming into me with the same kind of force as the waters of the North Atlantic and I feel such a powerful surge of nausea that I have to clench my jaw, breathe through my nose, and stay half bent against the tree.
Eventually my breath works itself free of the place it was coiled up and constricted in my chest and, eyes burning, I gasp, "Oh, God."
Eventually my breath works itself free of the place it was coiled up and constricted in my chest and, eyes burning, I gasp, "Oh, God."
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[V]
I don’t pull the bike to a careening halt this time. I don’t gun it to catch up. I don’t do anything, at first. I’m too stunned to take any immediate action.
This shouldn’t be happening. We beat it. I got it right, the last time. No innocents killed, the tide of the war turned for the better. I did it right, finally, stopped the plane and walked away with Bucky at my side. So what are we doing here? Why has the loop begun again? It doesn’t make any sense. It’s no longer following its own set of rules- whatever ‘it’ is. The island, I guess.
I let go of the throttle and the bike slows on its own. I put a foot out as an afterthought, stopping the bike at the edge of the runway, and stare at the plane as it flies.
What more can I do? What is there to do differently? What do I do?
I don’t know. God help me, I don’t know.
This shouldn’t be happening. We beat it. I got it right, the last time. No innocents killed, the tide of the war turned for the better. I did it right, finally, stopped the plane and walked away with Bucky at my side. So what are we doing here? Why has the loop begun again? It doesn’t make any sense. It’s no longer following its own set of rules- whatever ‘it’ is. The island, I guess.
I let go of the throttle and the bike slows on its own. I put a foot out as an afterthought, stopping the bike at the edge of the runway, and stare at the plane as it flies.
What more can I do? What is there to do differently? What do I do?
I don’t know. God help me, I don’t know.
Entry tags:
[IV]
I smell motor oil, gunsmoke, salt and metal. The sounds of the motorcycle engine, the plane, the choppy, freezing waters of the English Channel assault my ears. It’s happening again. It’s happening again, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
I have always endeavored to remember the ways in which I’m fortunate, always tried not to take anything for granted. I was born to Irish immigrants. We were poor, not that I understood that until I was older. My dad died when I was young, my mother died when I was thirteen, and I was ill, my whole life. Sickly. Things were never easy, but that just meant everything mattered more, that there was more to be thankful for. All that said, I have never felt so damned as I do in this moment.
“No,” I murmur, grip holding tight on the throttle, “no, there has to be another way. There has to- Bucky!” I shout, looking at him over my shoulder.
“Bucky, listen! Make the jump, but forget the bomb. Grab my hand once you’re steady!”
I have always endeavored to remember the ways in which I’m fortunate, always tried not to take anything for granted. I was born to Irish immigrants. We were poor, not that I understood that until I was older. My dad died when I was young, my mother died when I was thirteen, and I was ill, my whole life. Sickly. Things were never easy, but that just meant everything mattered more, that there was more to be thankful for. All that said, I have never felt so damned as I do in this moment.
“No,” I murmur, grip holding tight on the throttle, “no, there has to be another way. There has to- Bucky!” I shout, looking at him over my shoulder.
“Bucky, listen! Make the jump, but forget the bomb. Grab my hand once you’re steady!”
Entry tags:
[III]
There are, immediately, the smells of motor oil; mortar; gunsmoke and the sea. The North Atlantic. I would know where I am just from breathing in the air, though finding myself just here, on this bike, chasing this plane for the third time in what feels like moments removes any need for guesswork.
The words ever again are dying on my lips when I turn the bike, hard. I have a better sense this time of what I’m doing, of how far we have til the bike careens over the edge, of how fast we’re going. There’s a new smell, one of burning rubber, as the little German motorcycle scrapes along the battlement. I turn, grab Bucky across the chest, and throw us both to the ground as the bike loses its balances and goes skittering away, off into the ocean. We land, and skid a ways, on my back, where the shield is covered by my enlisted man’s shirt. When we’ve come to a stop I roll onto my side and start to rip off what’s left of the shredded khaki uniform.
“Buck,” I say, “you okay?”
The words ever again are dying on my lips when I turn the bike, hard. I have a better sense this time of what I’m doing, of how far we have til the bike careens over the edge, of how fast we’re going. There’s a new smell, one of burning rubber, as the little German motorcycle scrapes along the battlement. I turn, grab Bucky across the chest, and throw us both to the ground as the bike loses its balances and goes skittering away, off into the ocean. We land, and skid a ways, on my back, where the shield is covered by my enlisted man’s shirt. When we’ve come to a stop I roll onto my side and start to rip off what’s left of the shredded khaki uniform.
“Buck,” I say, “you okay?”
Entry tags:
[II]
There are, immediately, the smells of motor oil; mortar; gunsmoke and the sea. Not the warm, fragrant azure waters that surround the island of Tabula Rasa, but those colder, sharper, stormier waters of the North Atlantic. I know where I am just from breathing in the air, though it shouldn’t be possible. My hands are gripping the handlebars of the DKW NZ350 bike I’m riding, was just riding, have ridden before. A ‘43.
It’s happening again. It’s happening again. No. God damn it, no, I refuse. Bucky’s arms are tight around my waist, but any second he’s going to let go to make a jump for the experimental drone plane we’re chasing after. The sharp drop off of the cliff, the end of the runway, the rocks and cold water below, the explosion waiting for us above-
No.
I drop my foot and dig my heel into the ground as I twist the bike to the side. No more. It drags another ten feet before I let go of it and roll, the unevenly hewn stone scraping hard against my elbows, shoulders, jaw. The plane is gone, up and off into the sky as I’m picking myself up, reorienting myself as quickly as I can.
Bucky is a few feet behind me, the plane far too far out of reach already, the bike teetering over the edge of the runway and then it’s out of sight, and for a moment I can’t believe it. I can’t believe what I’ve done.
It’s happening again. It’s happening again. No. God damn it, no, I refuse. Bucky’s arms are tight around my waist, but any second he’s going to let go to make a jump for the experimental drone plane we’re chasing after. The sharp drop off of the cliff, the end of the runway, the rocks and cold water below, the explosion waiting for us above-
No.
I drop my foot and dig my heel into the ground as I twist the bike to the side. No more. It drags another ten feet before I let go of it and roll, the unevenly hewn stone scraping hard against my elbows, shoulders, jaw. The plane is gone, up and off into the sky as I’m picking myself up, reorienting myself as quickly as I can.
Bucky is a few feet behind me, the plane far too far out of reach already, the bike teetering over the edge of the runway and then it’s out of sight, and for a moment I can’t believe it. I can’t believe what I’ve done.
Entry tags:
[I]
There are, immediately, the smells of motor oil; mortar; gunsmoke and the sea. Not the warm, fragrant azure waters that surround the island of Tabula Rasa, but those colder, sharper, stormier waters of the North Atlantic. I know where I am just from breathing in the air, although I also know it can’t be possible. Or shouldn't be, at the very least. My hands are gripping the handlebars of what I recognize, from the sound of the engine as well as my memory, to be a DKW NZ350. A ‘43. I know this bike.
God help me, I know exactly where I am.
I’ve had this dream. Correction- I’ve had this nightmare, more nights than I haven’t, since I woke up to a post-war world. This, what’s happening now, this isn’t a nightmare. This is living it. I know. I can tell the difference, by now.
I also know I’m not alone. Even as the end of the runway, the sharp drop off of the cliff looming ahead of us, rushes up to meet us- as the experimental drone plane that ended the war for me pulls away by critical, creeping inches to my left- I’m turning my head to call over my shoulder to the only other person who could be here with me.
“Bucky?!”
God help me, I know exactly where I am.
I’ve had this dream. Correction- I’ve had this nightmare, more nights than I haven’t, since I woke up to a post-war world. This, what’s happening now, this isn’t a nightmare. This is living it. I know. I can tell the difference, by now.
I also know I’m not alone. Even as the end of the runway, the sharp drop off of the cliff looming ahead of us, rushes up to meet us- as the experimental drone plane that ended the war for me pulls away by critical, creeping inches to my left- I’m turning my head to call over my shoulder to the only other person who could be here with me.
“Bucky?!”
[for Peter]
The last time I saw Peter, the situation was charged, to say the least, and as such I'm not positive that he'll show up today. Our training sessions have been going well- he's stronger, his balance better; he's nearly as sure footed if not quite as dexterous as he was when he was powered. He learns fast and, despite his concentrated efforts to fill every possible moment he can with patter, he's focused and dedicated. I hope he shows up today.
Even if we don't get down to training, we still have matters to address. At least, that's the impression I got.
Even if we don't get down to training, we still have matters to address. At least, that's the impression I got.