Forty-Nine Weeks Post-Snap.
Elsa, in her trademark stubbornness, had declined company on the day of the first anniversary; Steve's endless, hinting offers had been tactfully and gently refused, needing the day to herself.
Not the first anniversary of The Snap.
Her first wedding anniversary.
The little vet did not wake to flowers. Or chocolates. Or some sweet gesture involving a note pinned to Cody's collar. Or, what she would have preferred immeasurably (and given anything for) a year on, the rumbling of her husband's chest, mid-snore. Elsa would have relished her own self-discovered remedy of that even more: snuggling into his chest and pressing her nose to just the right spot on his neck. Worked every time.
"I took the day off." She sedately told the loudspeaker of her phone on the kitchen counter as she emptied the remains of a bottle of wine into her glass; a good portion of it simmered in a sauce on the stove but a full glass had been poured first. Steve did not recognize the light tinkling on his end but would not be surprised to learn it was the gentle tapping of the wine bottle on the rim of Elsa's glass; a very focused effort to harvest every. single. drop. "I would have done it anyway."
"Els… I think-" I'm not having this. Not today. So she circumvented the inevitable (and repetitive) sentiment swiftly before he could inch out another syllable.
"I need to be by myself, Steve."
"You don't know that's what I was gonna say."
"Yes, I do."
The pause spoke volumes, even more so was the sigh he had removed the phone from his face to prevent her from hearing; yet, it rang loud and clear on the speaker.
"I'm just saying… I can be there in a few hours."
"And I appreciate that, Steve, I really do…" Sauce set to simmer and pasta in the process of being stirred, she punctuated her appreciation with a generous swig. No need to ration it, not with the case in the corner waiting to be sacrificed to the shitty night ahead. "But today is a day for nothing. The most strenuous thing I did was take Púca for a walk and get the girls sorted." The care of the animals went without saying. The care of the farm went hand in hand with her own job and if ever she was going to honour her husband in that, it would be their wedding anniversary; easy day or not. "Now, I just want to do nothing. Pasta, Púca, wine, ice-cream and the X-Files: therein is the contents of my evening."
"That's not good and you know it."
"I'll have you know that the X-Files is quality programming, Rogers, and had you been awake at the time, I feel you would have been a diehard fan." Steve became less concerned with toning down his disapproval, grumbling fully into the mouthpiece for it to mingle with the smell of an Italian eatery that embodied the kitchen's air.
"I'm talking about hiding in a bottle of wine."
"You needn't worry about that, Steve, I didn't buy a bottle of wine. I played it safe and got a case."
"D'you know how close I am to just turning up right now?"
"You can if you wish but I may not be able to hear you knocking over Materia Primoris."
"Goddamn it, Els." Tutting into her glass (more tactfully than her friend), Elsa, already in fresh pyjamas, gave the pasta one more stir before deciding she did not want to wait any longer. And it would be a sound excuse to get Steve off the phone. "Look, okay, fine. Just… Do me a favour? Don't overdo it? I get today is hard, I know-" No, you don't. You haven't the slightest bastarding idea… "So take a day to get it out of your system, sure. But you don't wanna go backwards, Els. You said yourself how unhealthy it was, how hard it was to get out of. Don't do it to yourself again."
She could roll her eyes if she wanted to. Mimic him uncouthly. Tut some more and tap her feet in impatience. Argue the point like a child. But… He was right. And the defeated silence on her end told him so though he took no pleasure in it. Instead, the sympathetic plea struck her deeper than the nagging.
"I'll call you tomorrow, okay? Enjoy your night, he'd want you to…" To mention, or even allude to Bucky was painful. Having gone so long without him, attaching agony to his friend before and after he went into the ice, then having him back for just a scarce few months stung; the internal berating for not reaching out sooner often too much. All of this, without even mentioning him by name, caused Steve to falter. So maybe, just maybe, with that in mind, he should have spared a thought for how Bucky's wife felt. As it happened, not too differently.
"Goodnight, Steve." The little vet offered, her petulance replaced with a gentility that pulled the blonde's lips into a morose smile on the other end of the phone. "I'll speak to you tomorrow. I'll try to be less painful. And not hungover."
The butterflies, born of infatuation and perishing just as quickly from poisonous guilt, drummed uneasily against the lining Steve's stomach; born and dying, born and dying in waves. Had he been thinking (at all, with one organ or the other), to leave her alone to mourn in peace would have presented itself as the only viable option for a caring friend; perhaps been on standby if she needed to talk.
But Steve, distracted, tormented and increasingly besotted Steve, was not thinking. That much would concretize itself in a particularly graphic and shame-inducing dream only a few weeks later.
"Night, Els. Night, Púca. Sleep tight."
"What is grief, if not love persevering?"
The Vision, WandaVision, Season 1, Episode 8.
Gathered among the Avengers, Tony Stark included, to remember the fallen at their New York compound had been difficult enough.
The names of those Snapped from the locality crawled by in a continuous scroll on large screens scattered throughout the grounds; they snagged Steve's attention when he recognized his comrades' names passing by. Scott Lang. Wanda Maximoff. Peter Parker. Sam Wilson.
At least he had an escape. He spent an hour, maybe more, at the New York memorial, grabbed his bag and made for the jet before the Wakandan memorial could begin.
Standing in silence, unbroken by the Sokovia Accords, the Avengers (or what was left of them with a few more thrown in) conducted their remembrance ceremony with unified dignity; scarcely a tear shed or a distraught whimper.
The Wakandan memorial… That was different.
The itinerary more or less matched that of New York's: poetry, music, family tributes; albeit most of it lost on Steve being conveyed in Xhosa. What he did experience there that he did not in the States, struck far closer to home; a personal connection that the press-orientated ceremony at the compound did not possess.
The sniffles at his shoulder.
The soft sobs that could not be restrained by coughing them back.
The gentle, wheezing sighs that wracked an aching chest; physically manifesting the heavy, draining pain of loss.
And God forbid Steve should look down to his right because if he did, seeing Elsa constantly twisting her wedding ring on her finger (absentmindedly, subconsciously and such a deep, ingrained comfort of marital commitment) may cause him to sweep her up into his arms and just spirit her away from the purposeful reminders. Had he, during either memorial, thought of Bucky? Of course. Both in mourning and in a capacity of justification. Buck would want me to take care of her, wouldn't he? Her and the farm? Give her everything she deserves that he didn't have time to give her?
Giving into grating temptation in comforting his friend, Steve's highly toned arm found its way around her shoulder, completing it with a soothing squeeze. Aside from helping guide his friend through her distress, it also caught the disapproving attention of Queen Ramonda standing close by, grieving for her three children, biological and adopted. The disapproval was not for Elsa, the oblivious innocent, but for the man intentionally imposing himself on her devastated daughter in law; a supposed symbol of integrity, righteousness and morality. It seemed Elsa was the only one not to notice, on that day or on any other.
As if to make things infinitely worse, the Wakandan royal family and its affiliates (meaning Elsa and Steve) had been relegated to the palace balcony as the ceremony played out in the grounds below: the same balcony of Elsa and Bucky's wedding barbecue. That particular detail had been overlooked and, unfortunately, discovered too late for the observances to be moved to another location.
"Mama…" The little vet, short in oxygen-starved breath, managed to gasp as she met the queen with arms open wide in a similar gesture once the ceremony had drawn to a close. The embrace, as always, radiated maternal adoration and out of sheer gratitude and support, Elsa tried to return it as best she could. Ramonda, in Wakanda's proud national colours of red and green, held the little vet for a period of time that would have raised eyebrows among those who enforced royal decorum; the Queen rarely took notice of those people.
"It disheartens me to see a lioness weep." Low, intimate and only for Elsa's ears, Ramonda's silken tone had the desired effect of soothing her daughter in law. She pulled back, just enough but not too far, to wipe one of innumerable tears from a far paler cheek. "She carries her plight stronger than most, but she too must unload it before it becomes unbearable."
"I feel like I have done nothing but unload." Elsa replied, cracking a watery smile that Ramonda, endeared, found herself mimicking unconsciously. "No one has lost like you, Ramonda. First your husband. Then your children, all of them. But still… you comfort me."
"You have been robbed of the same things, little one, but we stand together, united in the face of our greatest foe. That foe is grief." No longer Queen Mother, but Queen in her son's indefinite absence, Ramonda embodied the decorum of royalty but somehow balanced it with all the compassion and tenderness of a mother. That, it seems, had only been reserved for Elsa when, for the duration of the hug, the eyes of an exceptionally powerful woman bore straight into Steve's very soul; enough to make him squirm and practically dance in shifting his weight from one foot anxiously to the other.
"Captain Rogers." Regality abound, Ramonda released the smaller brunette and rose to her full, commanding height in order to address the blonde visitor directly; fixing him with that intense, whittling stare of immense displeasure. "You grace us with your presence. Again."
"Yes, Your Highness." Courteous and respectful as a general rule from his Brooklyn upbringing, Steve added an extra layer that may be expected when greeting royalty: His chin met his chest in the bow of his head, arms at his side. At least if he broke the eye contact, the sudden beading of sweat on his brow (and nothing to do with the Wakandan sun) might dissipate. "I came in both support and mourning. This was Bucky's home: he loved Wakanda and its people, it only felt right to honour him here. And Shuri and T'Challa, of course."
"Honour is important, Captain." Ramonda agreed pointedly, steeling herself. When his eyes lifted, he found no change in her subtly bristling demeanour; a demeanour that validated everything he already knew to be wrong but could not help himself to the contrary. "In honour, we respect all those who have gone before us and what they have left behind. You would agree?"
Steve, biting the inside of his cheek and hoping it did not show, simply submitted himself with another incline of his head.
"Yes, Your Highness."
"Hey, before I go, I have something for you."
Thankfully, Elsa had declined to stay long at the banquet following the memorial; citing Púca and the other animals as an excuse to return home. Perhaps not so much as an excuse, her heed tended to revolve around the animals' welfare anyway so her reasoning for leaving happened to be legitimate. Whatever the case, she allowed Steve to keep the jeep for the evening under the proviso he dropped her home first: a fair trade in his estimation, given his fondness for the vehicle.
"Oh?" Unlatching the bed from the wall while Púca indulged in the titbits his mother had managed to smuggle out in her handbag, Elsa caught sight of the envelope on the kitchen table; the envelope Steve watched closely. "What might that be?"
Despite the early hour of the evening, with dusk only starting to broach the horizon, the idea of bed had become a welcome one for the little vet. Sleep may have been premature but with the day she had put down and exhausted from sheer sorrow alone, relaxation and reflection were certainly in order.
With the skeleton of the bed set up (sheets, blankets and pillows to be added later from the cupboard), curiosity got the better of the brunette and so, she took the envelope in hand. The rattle of a chain registered, light but sturdy, as it slithered up and down its confines at the slightest movement; that alone prompted her to open it.
All cried out (or feeling sure as Hell like it), the sudden weakness in her knees made sitting down seem like a good idea when her hand slid in to retrieve part of the contents.
Two photos. Originals. Both black and white. Both in some form of military regalia; albeit, he looked far more dapper in his shipping out photo than beaming and laughing with Steve, post-Azzano. Naturally, it proved difficult for Steve to part with but… as the watery smile reappeared slowly, and the adoring longing came to join it, the decision had clearly been the correct one.
"It's so strange…" She uttered, completely ensnared by the two photos she held in either trembling hand; another sniffle, one of many. "To see him with short hair, gelled… Cleanshaven… He's so very handsome, no wonder he left a trail of broken hearts back in Brooklyn…"
"He found the Prettiest Girl in Brooklyn right here in Wakanda." The blonde reminded her benevolently, his attention dividing as Púca sensed her melancholy and abandoned his bowl to ease her; not deviating from Cody as much as they initially thought. "Brooklyn would always be home, but he had everything he ever wanted and needed in a place he didn't even know existed. That said, I think he'd still want you to see it, if you'd let me take you."
Without much commitment to the sentiment, Elsa found herself more taken up with the gentle crinkle of the suspected chain and the two subsequent items that fell into her unfurled palm. Two flat pieces of stainless steel connected on a chain of the same steel; a neck chain and a toe chain. His name, his serial number, next of kin, blood type and more sensible things for the army to know should the worst happen.
Her husband's dog tags.
"Steve…" The little vet breathed, overcome, fixated on the small but vastly important little pieces of metal without sparing a glance for the one who had provided them. "Steve, I can't take these from you…"
"He'd want you to have them." The only (human) male reasoned, watching with bittersweet pride as she rolled the balls of the chain slowly and tentatively between her thumb and her forefinger. "And I want you to have them. They're just… sitting in my closet, doing nothing. I know they'd probably bring a great deal of comfort to you, I'm just sorry I didn't think to bring them sooner."
Steve's reward came silently, and he accepted it with a tender squeeze and careful rocking side to side; enjoying the embrace but terrified of seeming too involved. The gentle scent of coconuts told him she'd washed her hair that day; naturally, with its significance. Taking extra notice of the feel and smell of her hair under his cheek aside, if anyone could be accused of being too involved, it was not Steve; not when Elsa broke away wordlessly with one of the photographs in hand.
The small black and white square containing the handsome Sergeant Barnes, yet unscathed by war, hat proudly perched, found a new home: propped against Elsa's bedside lamp. The press of her lips to the pads of her fore and middle fingers acted as little more than a stamp or a transfer, pressing them in turn to the greyscale of the face she missed so, so much; Steve did his best to ignore the lurch in his stomach that tended to mean one of two things, but both involved Elsa.
"I'm going to keep this one in the jeep…" She declared fondly, fingering the corner of the larger one illustrating their friendship to a tee. "If he's there, I'll always know where I'm going. I'll always be safe. And these…" The dog tags had found themselves within the brunette's reverent grasp once more. "I know exactly what to do with these."
"And what might that be?" Steve prodded, readying himself to depart before he could stay too long and overstay his welcome.
"I'm going to put them where he always loved to be." Elsa, in a sudden burst of emotional joviality (and before her companion could ask), lifted and spread the chain, bowed her head into it, then dropped it around her neck. Taking loyal care to appreciate it appropriately, in the manner her husband's possessions deserved, it took a moment, but Steve donated his somewhat besotted attention anyway; snatched by the sweet, sunny beam this particular gift had elicited. Before he could ask for clarification, however, she fixed him with it and an answer he may not have been expecting as she tucked it inside her dress.
"Between me and my clothes."