Three and a Half Years Post-Snap.
The time difference between Wakanda and the States (Brooklyn, New York specifically) is relatively easy to distinguish: Twelve straight hours. It made for a quick and convenient deduction (unlike some time zones) on whether it would be appropriate to establish communication at any given time on a decency level: Is he/ she awake now? Would I be disturbing them?
Incidentally, it applied just then in the protective warmth of a Brooklyn apartment; old but well-built to withstand a New York winter.
Around 2am (2pm Wakandan time), the heap in the sheets, for the most part, remained mostly unmoved. Then again... at two o'clock in the morning, what could one expect? Any scarce movement could simply be attributed to the lulled rising and falling of a sculpted chest: a very ordinary thing for such an extraordinary man, Steve Rogers was not exempt. 2am or 8am mattered not, not when the heaviness of enveloping darkness (part and parcel of any winter) permeated the bedroom and sedated its occupant until much later that morning.
However, tranquillized and all as the blonde may have been, subconsciously his senses remained piqued and alert. Not for threat or attack like a soldier or an Avenger should be, but for a... certain jingle. The jingle assigned to one specific person that had become synonymous with so many skipped heartbeats and stubbed toes for diving blindly for his phone; hopping on one foot blending with that stupid, enamoured smile. The last tormenting week or so had seen a marked decrease in said stubbed toes and stupid, enamoured smiles.
Out of seemingly nowhere, the deepest depths of Steve's slumber became rocked by that craved jingle, a pre-programmed melody; assaulting his senses and rousing him instantly into warrior-trained readiness. The small sound sent a previously comatosed Captain Rogers scrambling; fighting manically through the perceived restriction of his sheets to sit up in bed.
It's her… It's her…
Eyes scarcely open, heart hammering in his chest and breath struggling to keep up with his sudden frenzy, Steve's open palm swatted desperately across the bedside table until it seized the trilling device in question.
It's her… It's her…
Allowing no time for disorientation or even consideration for his own eyes and what the glare after several hours of restful dark would do (they were over a hundred years old, Steve reasoned, they had made it this far). However, when his eyes finally did adjust, mixed feelings hit him like the L train.
K: Your scheduled delivery was successful!
Disappointment, obviously, prevailed: It wasn't her. Somewhere along the way, it escaped Steve's recollection that he had set the same jingle for the florist (Kaskadi Flowers of Birnin Zana, please support local and independent businesses) as had been Elsa's for as long as he could remember; the florist's number (and its automated delivery alert) only existing in his phone because of Elsa.
K: At 2.07pm, the Luxury Lily Bouquet (with card) was delivered for Dr. Elsa Barnes at the Barnes Plot, Ukulangazelela, Birnin Zana. Thank you for your custom. We hope you will use Kaskadi flowers again.
Now, what that message, in its automated nature, failed to specify was that Elsa Barnes had not been home to receive the delivery, so the driver (with seemingly no experience of goats, especially naughty ones) simply left the beautiful bouquet in the shade and within just enough reach of some particularly determined herbivores. Would Steve have laughed if he knew? Probably. A pained, disbelieving laugh that the animal lover in him would have shrugged off; pleased that someone got something out of it. Though, knowing the unconventional brunette as he did, it would have made her laugh too; not in cruelty but similar, disbelieving irony.
What little comfort Steve did take from the message, was that contact should have been imminent.
An awkward "Thank You" text, a picture of the flowers on the kitchen table, or… what he would have given anything in the world to hear: "I've been doing some thinking, Steve, and you were right. I want you to come back. Pack a bag, a big bag, we have a lot to talk about." That last one would be the ideal, the dream but… he would have to wait.
2.07pm… If she was back at the farm for lunch, she would have just missed the delivery, she tends to leave around 1.45, 1.50… Maybe… Maybe by the time I wake up, she'll have seen them and reached out.
With that assumption in his head, Steve managed to return to sleep with the promise that he would have progress to wake up to.
But would he be disappointed?
"Nothing?"
Steve, despite accepting the offer of coffee, hadn't touched it. Then again, the thing to turn him off it had, incidentally, been the first thing Nat asked while she went about putting biscuits on a plate. Well… Elsa would have called them biscuits. Heartsick, he miserably wallowed in making the connection to her in something as trivial as Goddamn biscuits.
How was he supposed to answer that? Between the disappointment, the pain, the embarrassment, the hopelessness and all those things crowding together as one heavy knot in his stomach, it didn't even bear thinking about, let alone addressing. To that end, when words were too bitter, he simply half-shrugged and dropped his eyes to floor; all under Natasha's sympathetic gaze, too much for an "I Told You So".
"I'm sorry, Steve." Proving she knew him, the redhead purposely placed the chocolate smothered offerings closest to the blonde (as opposed to the plain ones); a hope at lifting his spirits through cocoa-ushered endorphins if nothing else. "But look, it's still early…"
The heighten of despondent eyes, puppy-like as Tony had often teased, drilled into the notorious Black Widow (known simply as Nat to her closest and dearest) and while she had sympathized to a degree (dictated by female solidarity) with the little vet in Wakanda, the one before her at that instant took precedent. The flowers, she had debated, may have been ill-advised but when Steve refused input, what else could she do? He knew her better, perhaps it would have worked. Or… the little vet may have felt it too full-on in such a wounded state.
"She got the flowers, what, yesterday? Maybe she doesn't know what to do yet. Maybe she needs to think about it some more." Praying to whoever or whatever that she was making sense, Nat blew a somewhat exasperated sigh, but it appeared Steve needed more by way of reassurance; something she had become incredibly good at. "I mean… you said she knew nothing about the way you felt, that she was oblivious, so this is kinda out of left field. Give her some more time, she might come around. Have you contacted her?"
Steve, pining Steve, would never admit, even to his most trusted ally, that his phone had barely left his hand since he awoke to the notification, since the confirmation of delivery with the supposed implication of contact and reply. With rekindling. With healing. With forgiveness. With progress. Unfortunately, clinging to those hopes only led to a deepening of desperation when radio silence prevailed and the grip on his phone continued to be unyielding well into his reclaimed sleep. Even to his friend, who knew his vulnerabilities, the blonde would rather Natasha did not know how often he checked the screen itching for a reply, straining his ears for her assigned ringtone, fantasizing the potential conversations of when she did reach out. Not that the redhead would have judged him, but the pity was almost worse.
"No." A strange anomaly in itself but the truth: He had managed to restrain himself. "I guess I was just hoping against hope that by the time I got up, she might have said something. When she didn't, and I still haven't heard anything, I think I know what she's thinking." The cup of swiftly cooling coffee became a refuge for the first time; drawing Steve's eyes when he couldn't take the soft pity of Nat's any longer. "I've driven her away, Nat. I know I have. And I don't think I can blame her."
"Her husband's best friend kisses her, seemingly outta nowhere." The rationalization came benevolently; probably more so than one would expect of an ex-assassin. "Literally right after he buries her dog: That's gonna throw anyone's brain outta whack. I don't think even she knows what she's thinking right now. She could be still wading through it, picking it all apart. I wouldn't want to see you jump to any rash conclusions either, Steve. Because… It sounds like this is really what you want."
Did that comfort him? Even a little? Offer him some reprieve within his own mind that it wasn't over yet? Were Nat's gentle efforts in vain? Or was she simply playing devil's advocate? Giving Elsa the benefit of the doubt for now in accordance with what Steve wanted to hear? And really, with such a short time elapsed, and the various components at work (time difference, work, the farm, etc), that doubt may prove to be beneficial yet.
Or, should the deepest depths of Steve's fears be realized, it may not.