115.
Washington, DC
September 2nd, 2013
Steve sits in the quiet, sterile office at S.H.I.E.L.D., the low hum of computers and muted conversations in the background. His gaze flickers over the documents before him, but his thoughts are elsewhere—on the phone call he's currently having with Isabel. The call feels like an anchor to the world he once knew, something that keeps him grounded amidst the whirlwind of information that bombards him daily. He can hear the sounds of her footsteps on the pavement through the phone, a rhythm that feels familiar and comforting.
"How good would these have been back in the day?" Isabel's voice cuts through the distance between them, light with the humour of a bygone era. She's walking down the street on her usual daily walk through the neighbourhood, the scent of autumn in the air, leaves crunching underfoot as she makes her way past familiar brownstones. "We could've just called our parents at home instead of sending a letter."
"Or, we could have text to meet at Dolly's Diner," Steve offers.
"Dolly's…" There's a pause. "I don't remember."
"Black and white tiled floors, red booths, pink shop front? Bucky had a crush on the waitress?"
"Nope. Still coming up blank."
"I'll sketch it for you tonight. It was cute."
Steve leans back in his chair, the thought amusing, yet foreign. The technology of today feels like an alien world to him still, and the ease of communication over the phone, even across distances, is something he can hardly wrap his head around. It's helpful, sure, but he doesn't really get how it works.
He lets a small chuckle escape him. It's strange to think about how life could have been so different for him back then, with such simple things taken for granted by others.
"And anyway, instead of searching high and low through Brooklyn, Bucky could've just called you to find out which alleyway you were lying behind," Isabel continues, teasing. The lightness in her tone contrasts with the weight of the memories it brings to Steve's mind. Bucky and Brooklyn—those were simpler times, in a way, even if the world wasn't always kind to them.
"Funny," Steve deadpans, his voice dry. It's an old joke between them, and though he doesn't laugh, there's a warmth to it, a familiarity that settles in his chest. "There's just so much to catch up on," Steve admits, feeling flustered. The flood of new events, ideas, shows, music, and movements that have come and gone in the years since he was frozen overwhelms him. It's a strange sensation, the world having continued on without him, evolving in ways he can barely keep up with. "So many events and movements. Way too many movies and shows and music."
Isabel's laugh rings out through the phone, her voice filled with affection. "Maybe you should write a list?" she suggests.
Steve laughs, the sound genuine this time. "You and your lists," he teases. She's always been the organised one, the one who found comfort in structure, and he admires that about her even if he doesn't always follow through.
"I'm serious!" Isabel cries, her voice filled with mock indignation. "And when have I ever forgotten anything?" She pauses for a moment. "Wait, no. That's not what I meant. I mean that I'm organised. Clearly I've forgotten a lot. But that's not on me."
Steve has to stop himself from laughing out loud. There's no answer to that. Isabel's memory, her attention to detail—it's something he's always admired, even though it sometimes makes him feel a little disorganised in comparison. Or at least, it used to.
"Anyway, I have my own list," she says, satisfied with her point. She shifts the phone to her other ear and fumbles with her purse, the sound of rustling paper filling the brief silence. After a moment, she pulls out a small notebook, its cover worn from use. The pages are filled with handwritten notes, a haphazard collection of thoughts and ideas that seem to spill out of her in no particular order. She flips the notebook over and starts to read it out to Steve through the phone. The list spans a variety of topics, from the Vietnam War and the Civil Rights Movement to Starbucks and disco music. The list meanders, seemingly disconnected at first glance, but to Steve, it makes perfect sense. It's Isabel's way of capturing the things that intrigue her, the things she's curious about, and it's clear some of the items have come from conversations with Tony—he can spot those easily.
"Oh, there it is," she says, retrieving another pad from her purse. "I have another book in my purse. I'll give it to you when I see you tonight. It's small enough to keep in your pocket. And whenever someone mentions something for you to check out, write it on the list. That way, we can cross it off at our own pace without forgetting anything."
Steve's fingers curl around the phone as he listens, nodding slowly. It's a good idea, a way to keep track of all the things he wants to catch up on without feeling like he's drowning in an ocean of unfamiliarity. "Good idea," he agrees, a small smile tugging at his lips as he imagines the list growing, a tangible way to mark his journey back into a world that feels so far removed from his past.
"Anyway, I have to go. Matcha lattes are on my list and I'm just passing one of those hippie coffee houses."
"It'shipster," Steve corrects.
"Hippie, hipster, same thing."
"Barely," Steve laughs. "Matcha lattes?"
"It's Japanese or something. Nat swears by them. So I'm going to get one. I'll let you know if its any good. I'll see you tonight."
"Okay, honey. Love you," Steve smiles.
"Love you more."