Three and a Half Years Post-Snap.
Another beautiful Wakandan morning poked through the light, airy curtains in the humble, open-plan kitchen (that bled into the rest of the hut) that Elsa Barnes kept as closely as it was when her husband disappeared. If he walked through that door (and really, she'd give anything for it) that morning, he would know he was home.
The little vet, waking slowly and contentedly wading into the realm of the living, had no qualms with getting up and going to work; without the haggard crow of the rooster from the hen coop to rouse her. After all, was it not her job, her passion, that had ushered her to where she found herself? Her job that had moulded her and given her all the best things she had ever experienced? Wakanda itself, the farm, the sense of fulfilment that every successful call gifted her, the embrace of community... And, of course, the true cause of elevation in herself: James Buchanan Barnes in all his one-armed Brooklynite glory.
With her husband gone and fending for herself as she had before, Elsa had taken refuge in her work; unhealthily so, according to some but what did they know.
"Come on, Púca, love…" Stretching blissfully with a soft groan to match, the brunette wriggled in the expanse of a double bed that could still be psychological torture if the mood caught her wrong. "We can be seeing to William, Herbert and the girls while the kettle's boiling." As was the routine every morning, Púca would not need to be told.
True to that routine, Elsa shuffled from her comfort zone and found that the heat of the morning more or less matched that trapped under the sheets; it made for less of a challenge getting up and getting dressed.
"Púca." From the kitchen sink, having washed her face, Elsa's heed returned to the bed where her second White Wolf remained; normally, he hovered by his bowl by now. Instead, he had yet to leave the bed. Or… move at all.
"Púca…?" Kettle set aside, the fully dressed lioness curiously reclaimed the distance between the sink and the bed to check on the large Shepherd-esque beast. Yes, he had shown his age more of late and true, his hearing had seen better days but… surely that was all?
"Púca…?" She pressed gently, sinking to her khaki-clad knees in a bid to put herself nose to nose with the dog, she found herself within a clinch of… uneasiness. "Darling, are you alr-…?"
A dog's nose is supposed to be cold, it's a sign of general health and wellbeing in the animal. But that is all that is supposed to be cold. Elsa didn't need to be a vet to know that. As if reality had slowed and her dawning realization (along with the touch receptors in her hand) lagged behind it, it took a few comprehending strokes of Púca's snowy head to twig the dreaded inevitable.
"Púca…?" Elsa's voice cracked and her breath hitched under the strain of helplessness as hope for a misunderstanding drained; by now, even with diminished hearing, he would have woken by the touch to sniff and lick her hand. "Sweetheart, please wake up…"
The straw-grasping sniffles flowed freely until it finally clicked that Púca's ivory pelt was, indeed, cold; as well as the skin beneath it. It mattered not, not to his rescuer and adopted mother who clambered back onto the bed to bury her face in the dog's coat; her arms slung about his neck in an effort to maximize the closeness. As if, in some dramatic and miraculous turn, the transference of her body to his would revive him. A futile gesture if ever there was one.
"Please, love…" The heart wrenched plea, muffled by fur, had beaten back the rumble of a sob for the time being but it would not be staved off for long. "Don't do this to me. I don't think I can take it…" As if in cruel confirmation, Elsa's forehead lifted from Púca's upturned side, towards the end of the bed as the smell registered; how she had not noticed before, she couldn't say. If her beloved canine's unresponsiveness didn't cement it for her, the soiled bed would. Púca, from his first night in the hut, had always (despite his age) been spotlessly clean overnight.
How long did she lie there? Thrown across the beast's large form, covering it with her own? She should have been in work by now but so dazed and blindsided, the ticking progression of time meant nothing; screw priorities and responsibilities. Soft sobs of defeat and utter anguish wracked Elsa's chest and Púca's by the mere physical connection; the accidental CPR of devastation would not work.
Eyes stinging, lungs aching, nose clogged but seeping, and mouth lined with hair, the little vet could not bring herself to part with the animal that had done so much to help her heal without even trying. Turning onto her cheek to look up into the wolf-like face, Elsa took small consolation in Púca's eyes being closed and his face peaceful; as if he merely slept on. He went in his sleep. That's something.
Numbly, she patted her pockets for her phone (her mind so discombobulated that the designated phone pocket was not the first stop) while one hand continued the melancholic strokes to her darling companion's head; a reminder, even in death, that she was with him. Phone located, mind still clouded by grief and shock, perhaps dispatch should have been her first call.
But…
"Hey! You don't normally call at this time! What's goin' on?"
Selecting a contact is one thing. Dialling said contact is another. Voicing the blatant unfairness she had woken up to? That, Elsa discovered with a hand knotted painfully into her hair, is a whole other shitshow.
"Els?" Steve pressed cautiously on the other end, uneasiness piquing at the silence punctuated by fresh sniffles. "You a'right? What's the matter?"
"Steve…" The little vet choked as she unravelled all over again while desperately trying to hold herself together long enough to get what she needed to out. Naturally, despite her best efforts, the harder she tried to hold it in, the harder it fought to get out. So, of course, it just… spilled. "Steve, Púca's gone… He just… I don't know… Last night… I don't know…!"
"A'right. A'right, listen to me. Els, you listening?"
"Y… Yes…"
"Call dispatch, tell 'em you're not coming in. Hold tight, I'll be there as soon as I can. It'll take me a few hours, but I'll be there. Can you do that?"
"Ok… Okay… I'll call them now."
"Unlock the door. Try and eat something. I'll be there soon."
Would Elsa ever know that Steve Rogers bailed on a somewhat offended and scandalized date to fly all the way to Africa to help her with her dog? Probably not.
In the hours it took for Steve to hurry to Wakanda, he did little but fret.
His gentle nature (even pre-serum) had always included animals; making the sting of longing all the more impactful when Bucky had shown him around the farm for the first time. But, callous and all as it might have sounded, this was about more than just a dog. While Púca (standoffish and cagey to begin with) had become an amiable fixture in Steve's Wakandan experience in the past few years, he represented far more than an animal the Captain warmly greeted, brought gifts to and dropped morsels from dinner for. Púca had been an invaluable healing tool for Elsa.
I warned you about callous; to demote this living, breathing, feeling creature to little more than a purpose to a human. But, in the same way that a guide dog is classed as medical equipment (on par with something insentient like a wheelchair or a walking stick), Púca had served a purpose outside of existing as his own self, outside of being an adored pet and companion. Something Steve and Elsa, without communicating it to each other, would be forever grateful for.
Would this set her back? Plummet her into something worse than she had endured before? Send her spiralling into depths that she may never climb out of? Without help, of course? And everyone knew, Steve especially, how stubborn the lioness could be. They also knew how unlikely she would be to accept help; she had form, after all. All of these worrisome sentiments plagued Steve Rogers as Wakanda neared beyond the windscreen. More to the point, he wrestled with what he was going to do, how he was going to handle this. Not Púca's loss but Elsa's distress.
"Good afternoon, Captain Rogers." Kivi, Steve's air control liaison, chimed over the speaker; routed through Wakandan airborne tech that infected the jet externally to override its internal systems.
"Hey, Kivi. I know I'm-"
"Not to worry, Captain. Doctor Barnes has been in touch. We were expecting you. Cleared for landing. Bay 17, please."
"Thanks, Kivi."
From the palace air bays, with the jet left behind, the blonde borrowed a hover-transport in a bid to hasten his way to the farm. The trademark speed and agility of the serum could have ensured his appearance just as quickly on foot, but it would have meant a sweaty and soggy arrival.
His request (or one of them, at least) had been obeyed and Steve found the door open; the scene upon broaching the threshold winded him harder than any jog. The blonde's heart sank; pulling his mood and his facial features down with it.
Elsa had unlocked the door but that was about the extent of her movement from the bed and her angel in disguise, Púca. In the hours that followed, the hours that blurred together as she clutched her lifeless dog; little had changed with even less comfort to be had.
Still seated on the bed, the little vet grievingly cradled her precious pooch in her lap, his face and neck soaked from the combined flowing of endless tears and relentless kisses she imposed at random intervals; when the distraught, clawing need took her.
"Hey…" With neither qualm nor hesitation, Steve took to his knees to line himself with his friend's pule-puffed face; the very sight of her heart-wrenching. Gazing downwards, as if his sudden appearance surprised her, the recognition of support came with a renewed tremble of her bottom lip and a refilling of her eyes. Before he could stop her or even utter the barest semblance of solace, her arms had released Púca (though he remained propped by her lap) in favour of a desperate grasp of the blonde's neck instead.
"I know…" He placated, arms enveloping her torso; dog and all. "I know…" Whimpered sniffles and sob-hoarse breaths tickled the shell of his ear but… what else could he do? Other than hold her and let her cry it out? Let her spare Púca any further soaking and pass it to his shoulder instead? Without disturbing the limp animal in her lap, Steve rocked her as he always did; with the same affection that he had forced himself to keep on a par with siblings.
"Els…" Prying the rattle of her chest from his after uncountable moments, Captain Rogers pulled back and swiped a tear with his thumb; knocking one of many from her face. Practicality and sensibility (while usually an Elsa special) had fallen somewhat by the wayside to make room for anguished emotion but the fact remained: The heat of a typical Wakandan day would not allow the lioness to keep Púca for very much longer; not without a potential biohazard. "I know you're upset, and we'll get through it, but we've gotta think about this logically. D'you want me to bury him?"
Upset indeed, but compliant and understanding all the same.
"Y… Yes…"
Thank God. I thought she might've jumped down my throat just for suggesting it. But someone had to be the voice of reason and the embodiment of common sense. That, apparently, fell to Steve with Elsa in such a highly charged, emotional state.
"Here's what I want you to do. Pick a blanket to wrap him in but where do you wanna put him? What about his nap spot? Under the tree in the yard?"
"There... Yes…"
"Okay, I'm gonna dig there but while I'm doing that, I need you to say g'bye. Can you do that?"
Her accepting confirmation came as little more than an overcome nod, re-immersing herself in her dog for what would be the last time. Steve took it as his opportunity for an exit before she could beg him for a reprieve.
Cruelty, of any level or severity, had never been in Steve Roger's nature. However, he had never felt crueller than prying Púca from his rescuer; though who had rescued who depended very much on who you asked.
Not that it mattered now, with the highly dignified (but exceptionally loving, in his own way) animal buried in his favourite nap spot. At least, she could mark that grave appropriately; something that had been robbed from her before in both Bucky and Cody.
"I suppose I should change the sheets…" The brunette detachedly remarked, unmoved and without any great hurry to actually do so; even with staining presenting as a real threat. Despite it, she took to the bed, more or less where Steve had found her. Watching her disjointment, loosely navigating the wakeful daze that could easily have been confused as a nightmare, the blonde sympathetically searched for viable solutions; anything to ease her, anything to lessen the latest bout of suffering onto an already loaded burden.
"D'you want me to take you to the apartment?" He offered, grimacing as she picked one of Púca's hairs off the sheets just to stare wistfully at it. This… this would not be easy. "Maybe you should rest, Els. I can look after the animals here while you-"
"No… No, I feel I should be here. I didn't flee there after Bucky, I won't do it now." At a loss for what else to suggest or even if it was his place to be making suggestions, Steve reverted to the original purpose of the trip: Comfort.
Retracing his steps to follow her, the blonde took to his knees once more with the view of resuming his consolation-inducing hold; arms wrapped, cheek warming her crown, gentle sway employed to maybe, maybe, try and encourage her to rest. However, the silent embrace invited something else; something pure but impure, something kind but wicked, something wanted but unwanted. All depending on the all-important perspective.
The bridge of Steve's nose, by some minute manoeuvre that he had not necessarily authorized within himself, drifted subtly downwards; carefully testing the waters as it rested flush to her forehead.
Don't do it…
Tempting fate with every ticking second was not helped by Elsa's lack of response (either in the positive or the negative) that could have been interpreted either way, the niggling in a sensible (if small) part of his brain became shouted down and drowned out by his most basic and long-standing desires.
Don't do it…
Finally, some scarce scrap of reactionary recognition tweaked in the brunette; eyes of sapphire heightening curiously, bewilderedly, to meet their older counterparts who appeared a lot closer than they should have been.
DON'T DO IT.
But when did Steve ever do as he was told? Was that not what set him aside to be chosen as Captain America? What frustrated Bucky to no end every time he'd lied on an enlistment form? What prompted him to defy orders and go and rescue his countrymen from the jaws of Nazi imprisonment? All of those and more but none of it had ever been self-serving.
However, giving into the deliciously relieving snap of temptation by suddenly dropping and invading Elsa's lips with his… Definitely self-serving. The soft cushioning of her shock-still lips beneath his should have indicated the entirely unwelcome nature of the intrusion but so utterly enthused by his own bravery, he seemed not to notice. Yet.
Ill-advised? Warned against, even? Yes.
Exploitive? Perhaps.
Downright oblivious (dismissive, even) to the context of this poor woman's freshly ripped open wounds? Abso-bloody-lutely.
When there was no responding peck or attempt to meet him halfway, Steve, crash-landing in embarrassment as stunned wariness hung in the air, smacked his lips and drew his gaze away to… anywhere else.
"Sorry… I think that was badly-"
"You should leave." With neither reluctance nor the tolerance to let him finish what she could assume would be an apologetic spew, she dispassionately but determinedly cut him off. What else could he expect? Like a kicked dog, wounded but wishing to comply for her sake, he nodded dejectedly and fell back onto the balls of his feet; smacking the offending lips with panicked anxiety. The words tumbling from apprehension-chewed lips had to be forced, coughed.
"Yeah… Yeah, okay. I'll see you tomorrow-"
Again, steely but restrained and without looking up, Elsa circumvented his self-invitation back into her life the very next day without the consultation of what she felt. He wouldn't get away with it.
"No. You should leave. Stateside-leave."