Steve VII: March First

It was March first. Steve hated it. Yesterday was February twenty eighth, the day before the one-year anniversary of Carol's death. But today was a whole new month. The calendar skipped over the twenty ninth like it did three out of every four years, and Steve couldn't help but feel that the universe had slighted him—had slighted Carol—out of a proper day of remembrance. How was he supposed to mourn on the anniversary if there was no anniversary?

He knew about one hundred fifty thousand people died every day, meaning there were hundreds of thousands of people like him who'd lost a loved one on leap day. Maybe there were counseling groups for things like this. Steve did his morning vest treatment while listening to Carol's voicemails again. By now he had them all memorized, but it still helped to hear her voice every so often. It was a Monday, so he dragged himself to school and tried to pretend he was paying attention instead of letting his mind drift back to one year ago. Around lunchtime, he got a text. From Steve Danvers.

"Hey Steve. Today has been a day, as you can probably guess. Would you like to meet up at that playground again? I think talking to you would help."

"Of course," he replied instantly. They set a time and, after finishing his after-school vest treatment, Steve headed over. Carol's brother was seated on the same bench where'd they'd met before, staring longingly at the kids playing in puffy winter coats.

"Hey," Steve greeted as he sat down beside him. He expected the other boy's eyes to be red, but they were clear. Full of grief, but clear.

"Hey," he said back. "Thanks for coming."

"Any time. I think I need this just as much as you do," he admitted. "I can't believe it's been an entire year."

"Me neither. This year had felt like the longest of my life, but I'm also shocked that it's already been a year, you know?"

"Yeah."

"This whole leap day thing makes it even crazier. Leave it to Carol to die on the rarest day of the year," he said with a wry chuckle.

"Dying on an ordinary day is just so pedestrian."

"Yeah. How are you doing?" Steve asked genuinely.

"Better than I expected to be." Steve had dreaded this time of year for as long as he'd known it was coming, unsure how he'd cope physically and emotionally. Yes, he was filled with unrelenting melancholy, but it wasn't as overwhelming as he'd feared. "I'm choosing to spend today thinking about good memories. What about you?"

"I've actually been stuck thinking a lot lately about all the times we fought," Steve sighed.

"Yeah?"

"It seems so stupid now, the things we fought over. Half the time I don't even remember what started it."

Steve had never had a sibling, so he couldn't exactly relate, but it reminded him of all the times he'd been mad at Bucky for something ridiculous. They always made up afterwards, but Steve knew that if—heaven forbid—Bucky's cancer had killed him, he would've spent hours regretting every moment they didn't get along.

"There was this one time when we were younger, when we still lived in California because Mom was stationed at the Air Force base in LA. We'd been arguing for days, and no matter how hard I think about it I have no idea why. Dad took us to the beach in an attempt to make us happy enough not to be at each other's throats. I remember making a sand sculpture of a turtle. I was racing the tide to finish it, and I was so close…and then she stepped on its head."

Steve could tell where this story was going.

"I was so mad. I didn't even think, I just stood up and shoved her as hard as I could. She probably could have broken her neck, the way she fell. The worst part was that I didn't even regret it. I only got worried that Dad would yell at me if she was actually hurt. How messed up is that?"

"All siblings fight," Steve said, not knowing what else to add.

"Yeah, I know. And in general, we got along, especially as we got older. But now that she's gone…I just can't help but wish I had more good memories, you know? If we hadn't been fighting during that beach trip, how much more fun would we have had?" Steve looked at him with unrestrained grief in his expression, and he had absolutely no idea what to say. All of his own memories of Carol were good ones, so he didn't share this regret.

"You couldn't have told the future," he decided to say. "Your relationship was what it was, and the fights are just as much a part of it as the good times."

"Yeah, I guess you're right. I just hope she wasn't thinking about the fights towards the end."

"I don't think she was. I've been dying for a pretty long time now, and I can assure you that I don't dwell on old arguments."

"That's good to hear."

"What's the memory you hope she was thinking about?" Steve asked. He thought considering that might help Steve cheer up.

"We used to stargaze, when we were really young. She was obsessed with shooting stars. We made up this story together, about a little girl named Alouette who lived up in the stars. We would lie down in the grass, even when it was wet, and just stare up at the sky waiting for Alouette to pass by so we could say hi. Dad used to have to drag us inside to go to bed. Carol didn't want to go to sleep until she'd seen her."

"That sounds like a really good memory."

"It is."

"And it sounds like you remember it in even more detail than the fight."

Steve hummed. "I guess so."

"How are your parents?" he asked. Carol hadn't told him much about them, beyond the fact that she didn't really get along with her dad and her mom was Air Force.

"They're coping for now. I'm just really worried about what's going to happen next time Mom gets restationed. Four of the last six years, she's actually lived away from us because my dad has a steady job here and Carol and I didn't want to change schools. But Dad says we have to move with her next time. They haven't touched Carol's room since she died, but if they have to move it's going to be a whole thing."

"I didn't even think about that." Steve couldn't imagine what it would be like to have to pack up your dead child's things and move somewhere without her. It sounded like one of the worst things that could ever happen to a person.

"I honestly don't know what we're supposed to do, you know? We have to pack it up when we move out, but what then? Do we just keep it in boxes for the rest of our lives? Is it insane to unpack it in a bedroom that will stay empty?"

"I don't know. But I'm sure you'll find a balance between preserving her memory and avoiding pretending like everything is normal."

"Yeah, I guess you're right." He paused. "I'm sorry to dump all this on you, I know I should probably save it for my therapist, but you're just the kind of person I feel like I can talk to."

"It's okay," Steve assured. "If I didn't want to talk to you, I wouldn't accept these invitations."

Steve managed a wry laugh. "Thanks." He hesitated again. "Can I ask you a question that you may or may not be able to answer?"

"Yeah, of course."

"This has happened a few times whenever I meet new people at school and start to get to know them. The topic always comes up one way or another. They'll talk about something their brother or sister is doing, and they'll ask me if I have any siblings. How am I supposed to answer that question now?"

Steve sighed. He really wasn't equipped for this kind of thing, but he tried his best to comfort and reassure Carol's brother when he so clearly needed it. "Well, do you have any siblings?"

"I—I did. Past tense…" he trailed off.

Steve shook his head. "Is that really what you think?"

The older boy looked back at him with a mix of confusion and despair. Then he shook his head. "No. She's still my sister."

"Of course she is." Steve still considered her a friend, even though she wasn't here anymore. The same sentiment definitely applied to siblings.

"But then that leads to the awkward conversation of how old she is or what school she goes to," he pointed out.

"I think that answer depends on how close a friend this person is—or how close you want them to be in the future. It's not your responsibility to tell that story to everyone who asks if you have a sibling."

"Yeah, that makes sense." He stared intently at his hands and picked at a fingernail. "You're really good at this, you know."

"Thank you."

"You should consider this sort of thing as a career."

If I live that long, Steve thought. That thought always drifted into his mind when someone mentioned anything about the future. It was depressing, but realistic. Steve would love to make a living out of helping people, and he did think he'd be rather good at it, but the only thing holding him back was the uncertainty that he'd survive long enough to get the necessary education.

"Maybe," he said, instead of voicing the improbability of the possibility. "What are you studying?"

"Engineering."

"That's cool."

"Yeah. I knew I didn't want to follow in our mom's footsteps and join the military. Carol was all over that idea, though. She wanted to join the Air Force ever since she could pronounce it."

"When I was little I wanted to join the Army, like my dad. He had to sit me down and explain that I couldn't do that because I was sick. I cried for hours."

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah, that was hard to hear as a seven-year-old. But I've come to terms with it now."

"That's good. I don't know how you do it. If it had been me, I don't see how I could be anything but mad at the world all the time."

"Don't be fooled; I am mad at the world sometimes. I've just learned over time that feeling like that doesn't get me anywhere."

"She was the same way," Steve sighed wistfully. "Never any 'woe is me' with her, even at the end."

"Yeah, that sounds like Carol." Steve hesitated, wondering if it was appropriate to ask Steve such a personal question, but he'd been thinking about it ever since he mentioned the fact that their parents hadn't touched her room. Steve had the blanket, little Monica had the jacket, but what had Carol set aside for her brother to have to remind him of her? "Did she give you anything to keep?" he asked. "She gave me that American flag blanket."

"Yeah. She told me it would go to you only a few days after she met you. She said you got dibs because you were literally born on the same day as this country."

Steve smiled. Of course she'd poke fun at his birthday.

"Firstly, she gave me the task of taking care of Goose. Dad doesn't much like the cat and she didn't trust him to be a good pet parent, so she made me promise I wouldn't let him starve. Funnily enough, Dad treats that cat like it's royalty now. I think he feels bad for him, because he clearly misses her. Even now, he still sometimes sits outside her door and meows. And I think he also feels bad that they didn't have a great relationship. Being nice to the cat is the only way he has to make it up to her."

"That's sweet," Steve said. "But you didn't really answer my question."

"Oh yeah. She gave me this weird blue cube thing that she got for Christmas at Gravesen. I didn't even know what it was, and she couldn't tell me either. But she said it was important. A reminder that not everything has meaning, whatever that's supposed to mean."

"Nothing," Steve said plainly. "That's the point."

"Oh yeah. Anyway, it does look pretty cool. I keep it on my desk, right next to the picture from my senior prom."

"Why next to your prom picture?"

"She photobombed it. Epically photobombed it."

They looked at each other and immediately burst out laughing, the kind that warmed them all the way to their fingertips. Until sundown, they sat on that bench and alternated sharing stories about the person they wished were there sitting between them. The chilled winter air made Steve's lungs seize up uncomfortably, but he couldn't imagine being anywhere else.

Yay, more Carol content based on the minimal flashback scenes we got in Captain Marvel :)