((Have some Halloween in April! I think we need it!
I'm aware it's a decent time skip but I want to try and move this along.))
Two and a Half Years Post-Snap.
In between door knocks and fistfuls of candy from a salad bowl on the countertop, Captain Rogers' ears pricked to a chiming from his phone; a specific chiming, a chiming that had him seize the device faster than any other deciphering tone. In that respect, not much had changed.
It took a moment. A moment of endeared, enamoured, lip-biting, head-shaking incredulity. Was he surprised? He really shouldn't have been. The image opened by a single tap provoked a huff of laughter at the initial realization of what it portrayed. Despite receiving pictures of the same creature quite often, the smile it evoked stayed the same from the first to the dreaded last.
Poor Púca. Steve thought fondly, taking in the dignified animal's less-than-impressed demeanour at the very idea of being dressed up like a toy poodle for Halloween. He looks so pissed.
Yet, ever the tolerant and loyal companion, Púca had allowed himself to be bundled into a bonnet and old-fashioned nightdress but predictably, he drew the line at the glasses; not that his adopted mother hadn't tried.
But what's a wolfish grandmother without his (her?) Little Red Riding Hood? And she was in the selfie too; sweet, dimpled beam, red cloak, wicker basket… Steve's main focus, she always would be. Recognizing the background as the Wakandan hut's "kitchen" and overly familiar with the time difference, he knew it to be early morning; before work for Elsa and her second White Wolf.
Two and a half years had passed since the Titan snapped his thick purple fingers and vanquished half the universe with the seemingly innocuous act. Two and a half years since Steve lost two of his closest friends, then Tony as part of the fallout. Two and a half years since Elsa lost her beloved husband. In that time, nothing had really changed; despite his hope that they might have by then, given time. Time had been given with neither reward nor return and Elsa remained as clueless as she always had. Instead, when she graced him with a glance into her day-to-day (be it a picture of the animals, news of the farm's goings-on, or just a checking-in message), he gladly took it; seeing it as still being on her mind.
While he waited for the next batch of trick or treaters (a lot of Captain Americas and other Avengers flatteringly turning up at his door), Steve's thumb did the talking.
S: Please tell me you're not putting that poor dog through a day of work like that!
Sent. Received. Seen. Reply? Imminent, if the little bouncing dots were anything to go by; probably as she lined her stomach before the workday started.
E: I think he looks rather smart, thank you very much!
Another batch. More jovial calls of "Trick or Treat!" to match the enthusiastic reception Steve always gave; Christ, Halloween had come a long way since his trick or treating days. A lot to be said for a garbage bag or a sheet with a few holes in it; if they could spare the sheet. With that batch gone, he waited for the next and tapped out a curiosity.
S: I didn't know Halloween was a thing over there?
E: Not really. But they indulge the odd foreigner doing her odd foreigner thing and just smile and nod along. Which is more than can be said for most places.
Amen to that… The blonde concurred with a lift of his eyebrows and a suckle of his beer. If everywhere was as tolerant as Wakanda, half the shit going on now might not be.
S: What about candy? If they don't do Halloween, did you buy candy?
E: Oh I bought it. I had intended on giving it to the children whose farmsteads are on my rounds. But then I ate it, so I bought more.
S: Eat that too?
E: How dare you…
E …Yes.
E: And I enjoyed it immensely. Sue me. I bought more last night so I didn't have time to eat it all. No one else here is buying it so there's no mad rush. I was the only idiot with arms full of chocolate bars.
Steve, having just squeezed a fun-size Snickers into his mouth like toothpaste from the tube, savoured the muffled chuckle (as well as the peanutty, chocolatey, caramelly, nougaty goodness); then chased it with another swig of beer.
S: How are you going to transport candy in that heat? It's still, what? 70? 75 degrees?
Once more, the bouncing dots begged his patience and with a lull in trick or treaters (the younger and more vocal ones had started to retreat with their hauls with the darkening evening), he had nothing else to do but sip his beer and wait. Patience abound, embedded in his very nature, Steve was not kept waiting long.
E: I'm not saying that's what a blood cooler is for but…
The answer punched a cough from serum-healed lungs; launching the mouthful of foam and Snickers remnants right back into the bottle he had just sucked it from. And his nose.
S: YOU CAN'T PUT CANDY IN THE BLOOD COOLER!
E: NOT IN THE BLOOD COOLER, STEVE! BESIDE THE BLOOD COOLER! HOW DO YOU THINK I KEEP MY LUNCH FROM SPOILING?!
S: You scared me for a Goddamn second there.
E: What kind of psychopath do you take me for?!
Punctuated by laughing emojis, relief gripped Captain Rogers and massaged the knots out of his stomach. Yet again, why was he surprised? Dr. Elsa Barnes embodied an extremely diligent, sensible and responsible human being; vet aside. She wasn't about to put candy intended for the children on her rounds in the blood cooler. The hopefully-someday mother in her wouldn't allow it.
S: I mean… You really asking?
Recovering with humour on both sides (unseen by the other), her response came instantly, a very Elsa retort that pushed Steve further into the grasp of amusement; one he knew better than to take seriously: A middle finger.
Before he could reply with something like: "Right back atcha!" or "Mature!", the bouncing dots began to dance once more; Mexican Waving on the screen to poise him.
E: How did the date go?
Like a bullet to a balloon, the joviality died away on Steve's end. In the two and a half years since he partially (not as completely as he would have liked) stepped into Bucky's role, their relationship had remained frustratingly platonic. The blonde had done his best to maintain the friendship and regular visits but had attempted to save himself from the pain of unrequited affections; mostly through trying to regulate his response time when the little vet did contact him. That, as you may have already guessed, did not pan out as well as he might have liked.
The other… Pressuring himself into dates.
S: It was ok. She was nice but I don't think she was really for me. Only seemed to want to talk about Avengers stuff.
He refused to brand it as trying to make her jealous. Dearest Captain Rogers could never be so petty or manipulative. Rather, he justified it as gaging a reaction. She gave him a reaction alright: approving enthusiasm, delighted excitement and almost badgering for every detail before and after the date. And it was like that every time, before and after each date; not a shred of ill-will or envy. Of course, Elsa had to be difficult.
E: Oh well. Maybe try and find out what kinds of things she likes? Bring the conversation around to those? Do you think you'll see her again?
There were no second dates, the first ones unable to hold his attention long enough without his mind wandering to the wife of his best and longest friend; the only one who seemed not to give a rat's ass that he was Captain America. She warmly teased him, while the others fluttered their eyelashes in an awe that unsettled him. That said, the effort he'd made with said dates was practically neglectful in comparison to his mere day-to-day interactions with Elsa. He was polite and gentlemanly and demure as always, of course, but… they weren't her.
S: Nah, think I'll leave it alone for a while. Someone else might come along, don't want to force it either.
Outside, down the hall, another cluster of trick or treaters at his neighbour's door alerted him that his candy dispensing duties were not quite over for the evening. Tactical assessment? Eyes on the front door? He had maybe two minutes before they knocked. In that time, Elsa had sympathetically responded.
E: Not to worry, the right girl will come along and when she does, you'll know. Púca and I have to go to work now but if there's anything I can do, you'll let me know, won't you? Talk soon. Happy Halloween!
I've tried to let you know. Misery clouding his ability and desire to reply, Steve's hand rooted in the bowl for the comfort of another Snickers. For such a long time, I've tried to tell you. I'm either not being clear, or you don't want to hear it. Snickers: Acquired.
The right girl has come along, as close to Peggy as I'm gonna get… And I don't know what else to do.
"Seth?! Seth?! What on Earth are you doing?! Where are you?!"
Murder, She Wrote blared on the television; bouncing off all four walls and damn near drowning out the courteous drumming on the door. In fact, Jessica Fletcher's flustered calls sounded so loud, that Frank had been joined ever before he realized it. In fact, it was his friend's bulky form passing in front of the television that alerted him to his presence at all.
"I did knock." The familiar blonde simpered with a half-shrug as he took to the usual chair beside the bed; Frank shaking his head as per the routine jest of Steve's visits.
"You say that, but how do I know you really knocked?"
"I dunno, Frank, you could… maybe try… turning down the TV? Just a suggestion, I could be outta line here." With the volume dominating everything (including conversation), Steve had little choice but to join his friend and immerse himself in the weekly hijinks of super-sleuth Jessica Fletcher. How does no one join the dots that people die when this woman is around? Is she the criminal mastermind? Is she keeping herself in business, inspiring her own material? Someone needs to investigate good ol' Jess…
The draw to the television, however, revealed something that had gone unnoticed before; if it had existed on his previous visit at all, but Steve doubted it. The subject matter would have snatched him: She always did.
"New pictures?" The blonde pressed amiably over the Maine-centred mayhem, nodding to the new (?) framed photo in the collection by the TV. Bucky and Elsa, unmarried, not even engaged (the night following when the photo was taken would change that though). "That was her naturalization party. That picture was taken by a literal princess."
"Yeah…" Frank, in an uncharacteristic move, reached for the remote and turned down the television. His ageing eyes met Steve's on the photo: A close up of two people very much in love. Bucky stood behind in his trademark protective stance, leaning over her shoulder, his arm clung about her waist. There was little wonder why, with Elsa's lips forever frozen to his cheek, that his grin spread so wide it practically pulled his eyes shut. "She sent me a bunch of 'em last week but I only had space for one more frame." Melancholic in his pining gaze, Frank had reflected a great deal on the decision to keep his brother in the dark regarding his enduring survival since his widow reached out over a year previous. But now, regretful or not, it was too late. "I love that one, you can see how happy he is."
Bucky's happiness remained a running theme in any of Elsa and Frank's communications; mostly letters since the time difference was unforgiving to phone calls between the schedules of a vet on the move and a geriatric in a nursing home. Two very different people with one massively uniting thing binding them: They both loved James Buchanan Barnes to a fault. In that vein, Elsa (to her credit) had gone to the trouble of going through her phone, selecting the best photographs, printing them out then sending them to Frank. Along with a few other bits and pieces.
"What else she send you?"
"More of his favourite coffee; you know how good that stuff is." Frank, an avid coffee drinker (despite the warnings from the home's GP on what too much could do to his heart) shuffled on his backside to access his nightstand drawer for something else the little vet had sent. "Some of those candy bars he always squirrelled away too… But these…" Distracted by the task at hand, the younger man (whose appearance did not reflect the fact) excluded himself subconsciously from Steve's curiosity; watching the drawer with a tilted head.
"She writes on the back of 'em. Like we used to do." Frank imparted with a morose wince, handing over the small bundle of printed photographs bound in ribbon; Steve took them with the care that Frank would want them to be shown. "I gotta tell ya, Steve… I get weepy lookin' at some of those."
The blonde, reverently untying the ribbon, could see why. Each photo appropriately detailed the important role Bucky had played in Elsa's life; by sharing them, she wanted to extend that to Frank and patch up as much as possible of what he had missed.
My two special boys. One four-legged and one two-legged, sprawled across a small bed in an afternoon nap. The size of the huge black and tan mutt didn't seem to matter; not when Bucky kept him close with his only arm and his chin securing the dog's snout to his chest.
Growing lad. Bucky. Just Bucky. Elated, holding up his favourite "hot dog" while the rest of his tray was proudly displayed below it. Beer. Soda. Fried rice. Bean fritters. Chocolate banana. Ice-cream.
Sleeping on the job. As if James Barnes did nothing but sleep, Elsa had included yet another of her beloved partner napping. The difference in this one, however, was the random dotting of goats who had mounted the same large square bale of hay to nap beside him in the shade; mostly William (only a few weeks old), having affectionately clambered onto Bucky's chest.
I think he was taking the piss out of me. It certainly looked that way with the ex-Winter Soldier having taken to the driver seat of a particularly beat-up looking topless jeep. Shaggy head tilted towards the sky, posh, snooty expression creasing his features and only hand grasping the steering wheel. Her sunglasses ferreted out of the glove compartment and donned with jesting gusto; Steve made a mental note to ask her to send it to him too. The image, perfect already, took its completing touch from an over-excited Cody in the passenger seat.
"She's turnin' thirty in a few days, y'know." Gently flicking through the rest of the photographs (mindful of fingerprints), Captain Rogers divided his attention between the precious images and Frank who dolefully watched from only a foot or so away. "I'll uh… I'll be going to see her. Maybe take her out to dinner."
"I know, she told me in her last letter." Frank replied, chancing a glance back to the television in a bid to lessen the painful grip the photos had; enhanced by his own thoughtlessness of leaving his brother oblivious until it was too late. "Will you drop by before you go and take something for her? I'll send one of the girls out, they'd know better what to get."
"She's not gonna expect anythin', Frank."
"I know but… She sends me things all the time and anyway, after you, she's the closest thing I have left of Bucky."
Steve wasn't about to argue. If it made Frank feel better (knowing his regret on a first-hand basis upon tormenting reflection of Elsa's comments at the revelation), it would be a small measure of comfort he could deliver; the other Sergeant Barnes, after all, was not getting any younger. Fair head cocked to the side, to where his companion waited for an answer, Steve "gave in" with a wry smile.
"If you're sure but I'm gonna tell her I tried to stop you."
"Whatever helps you sleep, Rogers." Frank, infected with the impishness, grinned back; further fuelled when his cataract-blue gaze dropped to the photo Steve had stopped on: Elsa sitting in Bucky's lap, feeding him a burger. One of their barbecues when Steve stayed, the photo taken by him himself. "That's typical of our Buck. Over a hundred years old and shacked up with a twenty-seven-year-old!"
The sudden splutter almost resulted in a shower of spit over Frank's precious photographs but thankfully, Steve caught himself just in time and forced the laughter-launched saliva into his elbow instead. When he surfaced, the mutual hysterics had not quite subsided.
"They were married, Frank!"
"Living in sin first! My mother, God rest her, she would've keeled over! She would've pulled that boy home by his ear for the slipper! Dishonouring such a great gal like that!"
Humour lingering just enough to be appreciated, the joke gradually ebbed away to sentimentality; something they were both guilty of valuing. Quietly, benevolently, Steve thumbed the edge of the photo as he took one last look before he handed the bundle back. They were a handsome couple alright.
"Yeah, y'know… I think Winnie would've loved her."
((Hope you enjoyed! Do leave a review if you did!
Bucky taking the piss out of Elsa in the jeep is based on this: .ie/pin/597430706794798378/ ))