Four Years and Five Months Post-Snap.
For Doctor Elsa Barnes, it seemed suffering and loss had become companionable bedfellows; guarding her at night and staying with her throughout the day with very little serving as an escape.
She had lost her mother at two years of age to "cancer". By default, she lost her mother's family: The grandparents and uncles who had been willing to fight for her to be released into their custody but lacked both the funds and sympathy from the courts to complete it. Her father's cut-throat representation and their submissions of "more stable financial means" and "assurances of a better future" nailed the coffin of a life in Ireland (with people who actually wanted her) firmly shut. Not that she, even at thirty years of age, knew the extent of it.
One could argue that Alistair Leighton was not much of a loss but, young and stupid with a garishly large rock on her finger, it took Elsa a great deal of time to reconcile with that fact. Perhaps, it was not the loss of Alistair (who, until she actually left for Wakanda/Nigeria, she still saw quite frequently) as such that pushed her to such a drastic decision but the reaffirmation (after years and years of proof to support it) that her family were, indeed, shitbags. Traitorous, back-stabbing, elitist shitbags who would rather harbour a snake than one of their own. Maybe that loss was not so difficult to come to terms with either: The loss of ever being accepted as one of them. Bullet dodged. Better off. Just in time.
The sudden and cruel evaporation of her husband, her first deep, lungful of air after a storm… Jesus, if that didn't kill Elsa, nothing would. And… in her darkest moments… perhaps she wished something would. Understandable, surely, when the love of one's life, whom they come upon in the strangest of circumstances but so clearly destined, after such a short space of time is ripped from them. Love, adoration, devotion… All cheap understatements of what Elsa felt for James Buchanan Barnes. There were no words to appropriately illustrate it to an outsider, but it mattered not, not when the two soulmates who the universe had moved so freakishly to accommodate had their mutual understanding that transcended words and explanations; just what happened to one when the other walked into a room, spoke, or reshuffled their closeness in bed.
Losing Bucky came with a double whammy, another blow in one fell swoop, one click of the same cruel fingers: The mutt Elsa had snatched from the jaws of death on one horrible, stormy night. The instant the headlights hit a black and tan almost-corpse, soaked through with blood and rain, the little vet dived into the downpour and by sheer adrenaline, wrangled him into the jeep. What choice did she have? The weak insistence of a pulse dictated she do her best and her best she did. Otherwise… Left there… he would never have made it until morning; be it from the gunshot wound or scavengers whose etiquette did not always extend to waiting for their meal to die. Cody, as he became known, evaporated; alone, confused, and terrified.
In those moments of deepest helplessness, Elsa sought solace in her second heaven-sent White Wolf: A white German Shepherd she called Púca. Handsome, loyal, protective and sharing a similar age to her first Wolf (in dog years), Púca could well have been Bucky's reincarnation striving against heaven and earth to return to his Lioness; with Elsa's every move in his guarding gaze by default. As you know, that also did not last and Púca died beside his mother with her arm draped lovingly over his torso as she slept.
Then Steve… Christ's sake… Steve… Although, blame where blame is due, that loss was self-imposed when Elsa, so consumed by confusion and confliction, just… never spoke to him again; robbing herself of more than just a friend. A support structure, a confidante and, of course, an extremely possible (and enthusiastic for the chance) lover, companion and father to her children if she so desired. But after the flowers, his calls and messages waned in their frequency until they eventually died away into nothing, the heartbroken blonde finally got the message and accepted the little vet did not want him in her life any longer. That was almost a year ago.
Now… Elsa could have done with snuggling into Púca's chest; the tears absorbed by his fur and the colour not betraying her. She could have done with Steve's arms around her too, swaying her from side to side, returning the squeeze oh so carefully when she gave it; no doubt he would have shared in her devastation and the comforting hold would have been mutual with this latest blow. Curled on her bed, eyes and cheeks stained incriminatingly, the picture before Elsa was not of one Barnes male, but two; albeit, the older one looked identical to the resident photograph on the bedside table, both being taken on the same day.
The picture on the pillow of her husband's side (that line since his disappearance had been blurred with tossing and turning but never crossed to any great intrusion on Bucky's space) bore two handsome brothers; the eldest decked to the nines and radiating pride at donning his great country's uniform, the smile hiding the glaze of fear in his eyes.
With Buck. Shipping out. 1943. The back of the photograph declared a date and event that would forever change the Barnes family, a day that Frank had assured his sister-in-law that his mother had never really recovered from; not unlike the daughter-in-law she'd never met. Shortly after the shipping out photo was taken, and Bucky had ruffled his hair and called him squirt, Frank couldn't have known he would never see his brother again, let alone guess the outlandish circumstances in which he would sort of re-join his life later on through his wife.
Now… Wherever they were, Elsa could only hope they were together again. A rough, tight embrace as they both blinked back tears. Taking long, hard looks at each other from up close and playfully teasing how they both had changed. The little vet could almost bet her life that the words "Goddamn hippy!" would find their way to Bucky's hair and beard; only in the most affectionately playful of ways, of course. And Cody… Cody probably skipped around Frank in his normal greeting, begging in his high-pitched whine for the ball to be thrown; his usual initiation for someone new.
Thinking on it didn't help and only served to draw another sniffle and oxygen-starved cough forth when she did. Frank was gone, along with her beloved husband but thankfully, the nursing home had contacted her themselves to inform her (the passing had been peaceful, in his sleep) while Steve knew to leave her be. As if in some civil, unspoken agreement, neither Elsa nor Steve divulged their parting to Frank; the fracture unnecessary to trouble him in his waning years so the blonde and the brunette pretended without the cahoots of the other. Not that it mattered now.
Come on… She admonished herself, urging her cramped and tortured form into movement; sitting up to expel another wheeze from her aching chest. You have to be a big girl now. You have to do it for Frank, and you have to do it for Bucky. Get the laptop.
True to the quaint, residential nature of Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, St. Dominick's Catholic Church in its small, intimate glory seemed the best place to say goodbye to Sergeant Frank Barnes. The closeness and compactness of the little church mattered not, not when precious few had turned out to bid farewell, but such is the price of living in a closed community and to such a ripe age. Many of his army buddies had gone on ahead of him, Frank doing his utmost to attend their services felt like the least he could do; now, only two or three survived to see him off for the ritual to continue until it could not any longer.
Frank had little left in the way of direct kin, so his funeral arrangements fell to his "grandnephew", the handsome blonde sitting up the front with an equally handsome redhead. It was that fact that saw an extremely shy and cagey brunette in her smartest black dress (knee-length, silver zip running the length of the back; something she had had dry cleaned for the occasion) take a seat at the back. With any luck, she would go unnoticed, though if she had known the funeral attendees would be so sparse, Elsa might have reconsidered coming at all.
There was something rather eye-catching about the dignified beauty and how she carried herself; mournful but aloof, separate from everyone. She turned heads, the exact opposite of what she wanted and the clawing need for it to be over raked her insides. Elsa took her reprieve as soon as it was offered and dived from the stodgy, incense-laden air while a healthy helping of those present moved in the other direction; either to say a last goodbye or volunteer to shoulder the coffin.
Outside, in the warm May breeze, Elsa watched from the shadow of a tree at a comfortable distance; not too close, not too far. Naturally, her own goodbye had been robbed from her, but such was the sacrifice to not engage with Steve when he never seemed to leave the coffin.
Casket deposited in the hearse for Frank's final journey to the Barnes' plot (in the ironically named Washington Cemetery), Steve could take a breath as the undertakers removed wreaths from the church to adorn the coffin on the drive. Numb, he stared at nothing until the sensation of Natasha's weapon-adept hand rubbing benevolent circles into the muscular plain of his back roused him from his sorrowful daze.
"You okay?" She pressed gently, as kind and considerate as she had been at Peggy's funeral though she had significantly less to travel this time around.
"Yeah, just uhh… Hard to believe, y'know…?" A moment of wordlessness ticked by, fuelled by what, Steve could not say but whatever it was, it stemmed the comfort the redhead generously bestowed. Nat's lack of immediate response did not concern him, nor did the cease in her rubbings on his back. What clinched it, however, was the soft, gasping breath that pricked his ears.
"Steve… Look."
Sure enough, when the Captain could bring himself to heighten his tear-glassed eyes, he spotted her; beneath the tree, gaze ensnared by the coffin waiting to depart and seemingly oblivious to her onlookers. But only for a moment. Had it not been for Steve witnessing her on her wedding day, without the khaki, without the messy ponytail, he may not have recognized her now.
A light layer of make-up, a high-collared dress with a price tag that would have scandalized her new self (one of the few things she had brought from her previous life), stilettos to match and a neat bun perched atop her head (perhaps with a few strategic strands pulled loose here and there); how Nat recognized her, he could not be sure. But Steve… Steve recognized her, in all her decorous if doleful glory.
"Els…!" He spluttered, choking, freeing himself from Natasha's grasp as he all but stumbled over his own feet in a bid to clear the distance between himself and the Lioness; making a beeline for her hiding place. Jolted and powered by the need to speak to her, plead with her, try to make it up to her, Steve called again to rid the possibility of her not hearing him. "Elsa!"
Momentarily tuned out, the cool shade of the tree and its accommodating trunk (having fallen out of practice with stilettos) allowed for her wallow in her own private mourning; seemingly sealed off from everyone and everything else. That changed, however, with the sudden burst of movement and familiar call from beside the loaded hearse; albeit, more frantic than she had ever heard him. Snatching poor Elsa's attention and redirecting it to the imminent blonde (swift in his pace once the stumble had been corrected to the full restoration of a Super Soldier) her stomach dropped. Like a deer in the headlights, every cell in her body screamed to simply turn, scarper, and pretend she had never heard her name at all; never saw Captain bloody America careening towards her, without the full cooperation of her own footwear for any possible escape.
Despite Steve's determination, his laser-focus on the brunette hindered his peripheral heed to such a narrowing extent, that before the startled little vet could be set upon by the desperate Captain, she was granted a reprieve of divine proportions.
"Captain Rogers!"
When the sombre but respectfully chuffed remnants of Frank's unit suddenly materialized in Steve's path from seemingly nowhere and forced him to a stop in his Hell-bent tracks, the blonde's ingrained reverence kicked in; smiling tightly, exchanging pleasantries, saluting, and shaking hands with each of the veterans. Duty dictated it of him, even though he could be accused of hurrying the process and depriving it of its due diligence.
When the elderly men cleared away to return to their respective vehicles to follow the hearse, Steve's desperation reignited to the realization (upon sweeping the street with petrified eyes) that Elsa had taken full advantage of the distraction and now, was nowhere to be seen.
Shit, where'd she go…?!
Had he actually seen her? In his grief and some scarce, tired hope that she would turn up to say goodbye? Had Nat mistaken someone else for the woman she may have poorly remembered from meeting in passing over four years ago? But… Mistaken identity wouldn't have fled. Elsa Barnes would have and did. Not to mention, he had stared long enough before he gave himself away. It was her.
Frenzied, Steve's neck twisted from left to right, eyes scanning for even the smallest clue or inkling of movement; for the whip of a black hem, the stumble of a stiletto or a whisp of dark hair. Panting as hope lived and died in his chest, the blonde cast one more look before another distraction heralded his attention: Natasha, beside the hearse waiting to depart.
"Why didn't you stop her?" He all but growled as he ducked into the sleek black limousine; out of sorts, rattled and frustrated by the near miss.
Unmoved and unaffected by the grumble, knowing him too well to take notice, Natasha made him wait for an answer; nonchalantly securing her seatbelt and fixing her dress before causally replying:
"She wasn't here to see you. And I told you: I wasn't getting involved."
Peace.
Quiet.
Serenity.
Sanctuary.
Sitting there, in the near silence of an empty church, perhaps it was long overdue for Elsa to just sit, close her eyes and simply… drift. The comfort of it, something she had not indulged in (or even thought to) when her husband died, ebbed at her very soul simply by sitting there. It would have taken time she would not have afforded herself but now, over four years later, it provided her a healing she would never have thought; and in his beloved Brooklyn, of all places.
Jesus, in all the times Steve kicked himself where Elsa was concerned, if he knew that all he had to do was double back a few metres and he would have found her… Sitting at the front where he had sat, accommodated by an open side entrance to entice the breeze.
The dog tags tucked beneath her dress became entangled in wrangling fingers and lifted above the high, inky collar to become enrobed in her guarding grasp soothed her further; they always did. Killing time before she made her own way to the cemetery, Elsa stayed in the near-meditative comfort for a while longer; and while she didn't pray per se, the church on that beautiful May day provided a unique shelter for a beaten-down soul.
Finding her feet eventually, she had not missed the time as it went by; drifting with the flow of her thoughts or just glorious nothingness to quieten the buzzing in her skull. The small, coal-coloured clutch bag did not hold much (her silenced phone, a tiny purse, her hotel room key and hand mirror) so it took no time at all to fish a dollar from it.
A dollar. One dollar. Fifty cents each to light a candle in remembrance and solace.
One for Bucky. One for Frank.