(no subject)

[paragon]

WHO: Steve Rogers
WHERE: The Fountain
WHEN: September 17th
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: Will add if necessary.
STATUS: Closed

---

Even if Wakanda weren't as historically reclusive as it's been until more immediately recent memory, Steve wouldn't pretend he knows enough about it to say whether the fountain belongs there. He's hardly even been outdoors, for all that he's had quite a view from inside; as a guy who draws things in a notebook on occasion he doesn't really think it comes from the same school as the giant panther carved out of the side of a mountain, but what does he know? He and Bucky arrived bloody and exhausted, in no mood for sightseeing, no matter how much the hospitality of Wakanda might be considered a rare privilege. Hard to see it that way, after sleeping it off for a day or so only to wake up to Bucky having already made up his mind.

He's had a lot on his own mind.

Still, the fountain seems out of place with what he's managed to glimpse of a ferocious sort of beauty, in the midst of buildings that Tony would be more comfortable calling home. This is— well, this looks more like something from his time. And he'll just as surely end up calling the bottom of this fountain his home, if he can't get out of here, since he apparently has enough clothes to get him through a cold winter. At least mulling over architecture is as good a way as any to keep from thinking too hard on how much trouble it's giving him.

He hadn't made the first jump. He puts the sides at about fifteen feet, too high for a straight jump for the edge, but manageable with the help of one of the more horizontal cracks in the wall and a running start. He'd taken a few steps backward, used the momentum to jam the toe of one of his new boots into the crevice and launch himself upward. It'd been no good, the tips of his fingers reaching far below the edge. He'd felt it in his body before that, though, the unexpected effort of the maneuver, when it ought to be so much going through the motions. The second try hadn't gone any better, after trying it from farther back, and he'd looked around at the scattered debris in here with him, determining that the leaves and sticks and dirt weren't exactly enough to make anything of. Gives him an idea though.

Climbing up the centerpiece is easier, even if he can still feel the strain in his calves, his arms and shoulders. Steve ignores it as best he can for now, figures he'll get the answer to why his heart's beating harder in his chest to keep up with his exertion when he finds whoever brought him here. Pretty effective, whatever they gave him, to keep him unconscious long enough to move him, and to weaken him even longer — though he can't help but wonder why, then, he doesn't feel the least bit groggy. He reaches the top of the centerpiece and braces himself there, somewhat unsteadily — which he also ignores — and grabs for a branch hanging from the tree overhead. He's just able to reach the nearest one, though it's by no means the strongest, and it bows toward him. He sighs, mutters, "This part would've been a lot easier seventy years ago," and takes a look at his surroundings.

Comments

[womanofvalue]

The water still smells awful and despite Peggy's trip to the river, she can't actually find any fish swimming around, which bodes poorly for whatever the earthquake has done to the water source. As she walks back to her new home (another situation she's still becoming accustomed to and though there are four bedrooms, living with another man is like going back to the war years for her), she stops by the fountain to see if the water has returned.

There's no water, but there's a rustling of movement above that catches her eye, directing it towards the trees. In that single instant, Peggy begins to question her reality because if she'd been asked to say what she sees, she'd have to admit that she's staring up at Steve in those branches. It hits her like a battering ram to the gut, actually sending her back a few steps and stealing her words. Sam had told her that he was still alive, but some part of Peggy had refused to believe that. Words are stuck in her throat, but among them live 'Steve, darling' and 'why couldn't you have given me the bloody coordinates?'

For all that Peggy has overcome physical and emotional obstacles larger than this before, somehow it's Steve's presence above her that's causing a splinter in her sanity she's not sure how to cope with. Grasping for the support of a tree when she lists a little, she finally lets out a grief-filled exhalation and finds something to say.

"This is not your mind breaking," she tells herself. "This is not you going insane," she says, staring up the bark of the tree at him up there like some sort of acrobatic monkey.

[paragon]

It isn't the sound of her voice that makes him look down. He'd spent a while, when he'd finally gotten brave enough to go visit Peggy, trying to hear the voice of the woman he'd known in her familiar but scratchy, lived-in cadences, until he'd realized he wasn't doing either of them any favors. He's only been able to hear her voice as he remembers it as a recording, as an archive piece in a museum, and for one absurd moment before thought kicks in thinks that's what it is, and doesn't even bother to turn toward it, fingers instead digging painfully into the bark under his grip.

But then he sees her in his peripheral. Just like that — catching sight of a person. He thinks later that it was a loose curl of hair that did it, but wonders if it's just his mind playing tricks on him. He couldn't have seen anything about her in that much detail until he really looked at her, but it's gonna stick there anyway as the first thing, the way it frames her face, looser than she ever let her hair out during the war. He guesses it's just the detail that makes it real. He meets her eyes, and only wishes it made him question his sanity rather than fill him with a grief both worn and raw.

"Peggy."

Whatever's wrong with him catches up to him then. He's not paying too much attention to how he's holding his body, but apparently that's something he needs to do now, because his foot slips. He tries to compensate for it but he's— too slow, too affected by the adrenaline in his body, too hurt. Something. His foot slips and it takes his eyes off of her and he falls, landing with a thud that he only somewhat manages to roll into so his side doesn't take the entire brunt of the impact. It takes his breath away, if only for a second or two, in a way it shouldn't. His chest is nearly pressed to the ground, and after a second or two he braces the arm he didn't just land on against it to try to push himself up.

It would probably be funny, if he weren't already looking for her again as he gets his knees back underneath him, like she might have disappeared while he was falling out of a tree in front of her. It might still be funny; he wouldn't exactly blame her if she laughed.

[womanofvalue]

"Steve!" Alarmed, Peggy is already moving, sprinting to where he's fallen, trying to brace his fall. She's not quick enough for that, but she does get there in time to slide her hand over his shoulder to find the firm warmth of a shoulder. Absently, without realising, her fingers drift to his temple, like she's going to brush back a lock of his hair, but she pulls away. His physical presence (and near-injury) have done more to convince her of his realness than simply seeing him and hearing him say her name.

She never thought she'd get to hear that again. Her vision is growing cloudy and she can feel the shaky lump in her throat as she leans back on her haunches, sitting in front of him. "What on earth are you doing up a tree?" she demands, her voice warring between fondness and absolutely breaking apart.

He's supposed to be dead, but thanks to Sam, she knows that he hadn't been. She knows that she'd failed him by not locating him. Her and Howard and all those months of searching to no avail, but Steve had still been out there and now he's here. Alive. Alive, and having fallen out of a tree. "You could have broken your neck," she accuses, head swimming with disbelief as she stares at him and drinks up the sight of him when she thought she'd never see him again.

[paragon]

Hearing Peggy chastise him is— he hasn't really had a chance to wrap his head around never hearing it again. Hasn't wanted to. It's dulcet and welcomed, as always, even if his heart hurts so badly as he finally sits up straight, one palm still pressed to the same fine grit of the dirt around the fountain that's smeared across her knee a few scant inches from his fingers, that he'd attribute it to this sudden weakness if he didn't already know what it felt like. Mourning her. Some part of him is aware that maybe he ought to be more wary, that this is an impossible situation, but he's been in plenty of those and isn't in the habit of doubting his own mind. He's not in the habit of doubting her. This is Peggy, somehow. He knows it like truth, in his bones.

Belatedly he realizes that he's only been staring back at her, that she'd asked him a question, and he tries to smooth out the anguished furrow in his brow. He's not sure how successful he is. It's another habit, maybe, from trying not to lay his grief on her every time she'd forgotten he was already in the room with her a second ago, that he hadn't died seventy years ago. Maybe. Steve's not exactly prone to laying his burdens on anyone in the first place, but Peggy had always had a way of drawing them out of him, in her practical way he found very hard to refuse.

"Um." He gives a quiet huff of laughter when he finally processes her words, though his eyes stay fixed on her. "But I didn't." The wryness falls quickly from his expression, difficult to hold on to. He shakes his head slightly, as though trying to clear it. "What—" He makes himself look away from her, back toward the fountain. Remembers his reflection that it seemed more like something from his time, and turns back to her. "What year is it?"

[womanofvalue]

She understands why she's staring at him with such grief and loss, but it hits her hard as to why he's looking at her the same. While she's never doubted how Steve felt about her, it's something else entirely to be able to look at him and see your own regrets reflected back at you -- years between seeing each other without the hope of a return from the war. His quick retort that he's fine earns him a cock of her head to the side, a silent question of disbelief as to whether he truly thinks that's the most intelligent answer to go with.

"I don't actually know," is her gentle response to his question. It's one of the things that she's still getting used to. She might be able to explore the physical surroundings, but it seems that time is an elusive enemy that keeps evading her. "For me, it was 1947," she says, still drinking in the sight of his face as if he'll be taken from her any moment now. "But there are others here from the future. 2015, I believe?" she says, thinking of what Sam had told her.

She reaches out her palm and lets it hesitate a moment before Steve before she pushes in and splays it over his chest. There, beneath her fingers, is the steady beating of a heartbeat. This is no hallucination and certainly not her fragmented mind taunting her with nightmares again. "You're really here," she says, shifting a little as the position she's sitting in causes a touch of strain against the rebar wound that still aches in the humidity here.

[almightythor]

Thor had made the climb himself a few days prior and it had been quite a lot of effort, effort he had not been used to exerting up until this point. He had the strength of an Asgardian. He should have been able to jump from the fountain with ease, if everything was as it should be, but it was not.

This place was a prison.

Thor had no idea who would capture him and his compatriots, weaken them and place them in this prison but he wanted to know. He needed answers and to seek them out, he'd haunted the fountain day and night to see how arrivals took place. He'd missed every single one. He'd fallen asleep, he'd gotten distracted - he'd even seen and heard things that weren't there.

The noise coming from the fountain this time around had woken him from a sound sleep and he looked down to see Steve Rogers attempting to scale the walls.

"Do you need assistance?" he called down, prepared to stretch his arms out in an attempt to help him out. "I can aid you."

[paragon]

He's just failed his second attempt at the wall, glancing away from it with a thwarted sort of frown creasing lines into his forehead, but he looks back at the sound of Thor's voice. He's really the last person Steve expects to see, not least because it's kind of been a while, but he supposes Thor generally isn't a guy anyone expects to see, period. The important part is that Steve's just glad to see a friendly face.

"Wouldn't say no," he calls back, and reaches up to grasp Thor's arms when they're proffered. Between the two of them and their not inconsiderable combined strength they're able to get Steve over the side relatively easily. But Steve can't help but notice it still does require some effort on both their parts; Thor alone would normally be able to swing him over the side one-handed without a second thought. He lets go with one hand to brace it against the edge of the fountain when he reaches it, helping to leverage himself out the rest of the way, glancing over Thor as he gets his feet under him and straightens.

"You too, huh?"

[almightythor]

"I seem to be weaker than I have ever been," Thor said. He shrugged a bit and flexed; his muscles were aching from the daily work he put in around the village and that was something he had never truly experienced before now. It was strange, to say the least, and concerning that Steve had the same issues.

"Whoever has trapped us here has found a way to tap our strength and make us more susceptible to injury or defeat. I have not yet determined who that might be."

[paragon]

Steve brushes his hands together while Thor speaks, dislodging the grit from pressing them to the side of the fountain as he'd come over it. He notes the demonstrative flex with a small smile, but the motion of his hands slows just slightly where Thor's explanation leaves off.

"That go for everyone?" he asks, already glancing around, now that he's out, to get the lay of the land. There are buildings, houses, and Steve assumes he and Thor aren't the only ones here. That there are likely others without their abilities, such as they are, may not be as safe an assumption, but Thor is welcome to tell him otherwise.

[dnr]

It's not that Frank doesn't trust the skills of the kids who filtered the water at the inn — he does, in his way, but water contamination is tough to detect after the first sniff, and he'd rather use the lush plants around the newly-discovered spring as his canary than a human being. Maybe he just needs an excuse to walk, too, to burn off some of the futile, restless energy that keeps him up into the night, and the dog doesn't mind the opportunity either.

So he's out here on his way back through town, a grey scrub-clad figure with a his head down and a bucket in each hand sloshing with spring water. A brown and black bloodhound pup blazes a trail in front of him, her nose in the dirt. They've been working on tracking lately, so Frank's not too surprised when she picks up a scent around the fountain — it seems like every day they're getting more new faces, more mouths to feed.

What catches him off guard is when she takes off at a run after it. Shit.

A minute later, a little black nose bumps right into the back of Steve's boot. Big soulful brown eyes stare up at him a second, rudder tail wagging one, twice — before she breaks into a bay loud enough to rattle your fillings.

At a distance, Frank swears under his breath and hustles along, trying not to spill all that water he just got in the process. "Hey—" he calls out after the dog.

[paragon]

It's easy to tell at first glance that this guy's one of said new mouths. His dark green scrubs have dirt on them now from his attempts to scale the fountain and then a tree (and falling from a tree), but what's been dirtied also clearly hasn't been lived in yet — there's still a clean, ironed crease down both sleeves. He's got both straps of the welcome backpack — also in good shape — slung over one shoulder, and the heel of his boot is dusty but unworn where the dog noses it.

If nothing else, it's a welcome distraction from his attempts to clear his head — though Steve supposes he's only got himself to blame for that, considering he's got plenty of company to choose from. Either way. He turns around at the intrusion, looks down. He doesn't have any fillings, but his eyebrows sure shoot up at the howl, and after a second he crouches down and rests an elbow on a knee so he can hold his hand out to her, palm up.

"Hey," he says, more modulated than the call of the man coming up behind her. Steve makes him for military even at a distance, but it's not until he's closer and Steve looks up from where the dog has at least temporarily left off the baying to give his proffered hand a good sniff that he realizes he already knows what branch, and how. He's read it in the paper, seen it on the news more than once.

Steve's never seen him with his hands free, though, and his eyes drop from Frank's face to the buckets in both hands, briefly and with a line between his brows, before he looks back at the dog. If he's concerned, it doesn't seem to be for himself.

"Take it she's yours." He gives her head a scratch and stands.

[dnr]

From a distance, with a rogue dog and two unsteady buckets of water to worry about, Frank's just wondering where Jensen got the new scrubs and what it is about that guy that always makes the dog go nuts, but it doesn't take him more than a moment longer to pick up on the multitude of ways this is decidedly not Jensen.

Which is not to say he doesn't recognize the cut of that jaw. He does. His steps slow to a stop in the dirt. It's a face he used to keep pinned to the corkboard that hung on the back of his closet door in their shoebox apartment in Queens, that he'd dug out of the attic and pinned to Frank Jr.'s the year they'd pulled him out of the ice, all two by three inches of Norman Rockwell glow. (It'd still been there, the day he'd burnt the house to the ground.)

The card didn't have that little wrinkle between the brows, though. It hits him sideways, under the ribs, to realize why he might be earning that look now. Thirty-four years of trying his best to be a certain kind of man, and of course he'd only have a chance to compare when he knows he can't anymore.

"Yeah," he manages, dropping his eyes to the dog to keep from staring; Aretha seems content to have earned some ear scratches for her hard work. "She's learned to track, but keeping quiet about it, not so much."

Scares away as many deer as she finds, probably. Frank sets one bucket down, wipes his hand on his pants leg reflexively, and offers it out. "Frank Castle," he says, because if what's going through this guy's head is what he thinks it is, he'd rather just be out with it.

[paragon]

Steve's not usually the type of man to refuse a handshake when it's offered. It's not something he could say he tends to give much thought, and he's shaken the hands of men he didn't think too highly of before. Polite, Tony called him. Maybe he just thinks there are more meaningful ways of communicating his feelings.

But here's a man who murdered an unarmed woman in her workplace, to name only one of his victims. Steve's been called a vigilante before (probably in no small part thanks to the Punisher's existence in very recent memory), but as far as meting out judgment without regard for the law goes, Steve's got nothing on Frank Castle.

So he doesn't refuse to shake Frank's hand to make a statement. It's more a matter of what he can stand. He expels the air in his lungs through his nose and looks from the hand to the man's face, says, "Steve Rogers," and that's not really meant to sound like a threat, either. But if both of those things have those effects, he can't bring himself to feel too regretful.

"What about you?" he asks, holding the eye contact, maybe a little searchingly, despite the rest, because he doesn't miss Frank's reaction to him even if he doesn't know what to make of it. "Found anything worth your time?"

[justaghost]

His first thought is what the hell took you so long? His second is that he might be losing his mind from lack of well...everything. As much as the others try the food just isn't what he is use too, or what he needs. He feels like he must have lost weight since arriving, which isn't a good thing with survival on his mind. He never thought he would miss those army rations, but damn could he go for some of that emergency chocolate right now.

Bucky just waits from the distance for a second, before he finally comes to the conclusion that this isn't his brain playing tricks on him. This is Steve. His Steve, finally showing up after a month of waiting. Late as hell, you punk. He isn't sure how he is suppose to explain to Steve that he is living with his best girl right now, but he hopes that the truth about a earthquake really won't sound as crazy as he thinks it does.

"Steve!" He calls over before he makes a mad dash to the tree. There is no mistaking it, it must be Steve. There is no way that it isn't. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest as he slows himself as he nears the truck and looks up. His hands press against the bark and without a second thought he jumps up, taking ahold of a lower branch and starts to pull himself up.

"Wait up!" Well, he can't do much other than that or jump down and Bucky really hopes he isn't planning on doing that.

[paragon]

That's exactly what he's planning to do, once climbing the tree allows him to make his way above the fountain to the ground surrounding it, a sort of bridge over a depleted water source. He'd paused once he'd gotten to the top of the centerpiece, but what he was able to glimpse of what looks like a small village has only added to Steve's confusion. So he's continued to climb downward, in spirit more than in practice, mostly just shifting through the branches in a sideways direction until he reaches the trunk.

Any plans, though, any intent that may be formulating in his head goes right out the window when he sees Bucky, as always. He watches Bucky run toward the tree and doesn't know what to make of him outside of the twisting in his gut. Even from his position it's easy to see this isn't the Bucky he watched step into a cryogenic tube in Wakanda, along with all of his demons. The presence of two flesh and blood arms is the least of it really. He doesn't hold himself like he's afraid of everything he contains, the violence and the — horrors, Zemo had said. He hates to give credence to anything the man had said, but he'd seen Bucky react to it, felt the truth of it in the part of his gut that knows Bucky Barnes as well as he knows himself. Better than.

(He hasn't trusted that part of himself as much as he would've liked over the last couple weeks, wasn't sure how well he still knew Bucky when he finally laid eyes on him again after two years of radio silence. Steve knows now that the fear of losing him again hadn't helped, had made him flinch and second guess himself and Bucky in the desire to save him. He and Tony really do have plenty in common.)

Steve is silent and still in the tree as Bucky comes closer, a hand braced against the trunk, but when Bucky grabs on himself and starts to climb Steve finds his voice — or at least a slightly rougher version of it. "Don't," he calls down, and clears his throat. "I'm coming to you." He forces himself to look away and start moving again. Which Bucky am I talking to? he'd asked — wants to ask again — but Steve had only hoped to be remembered. He doesn't know what he wants the answer to be now, and he shakes his head without pausing in his movement, wondering what kind of man that makes him.

[justaghost]

He felt like is dreaming for a moment. It's been a month since he has seen his best friend, and here he finally is. When Steve tells him he's coming down he let's go of his tree limb and falls back to the ground on his feet.

"What the hell are you doing up there? You know how long I've been waiting?" His throat is dry as he speaks. He's happy, but also nervous. He isn't sure if this is some trick or if this actually Steve he isn't too happy about the idea of him being stuck here too.

He's selfish though and the next thought is Thank God.

[paragon]

It's long ingrained habit that makes Steve ignore the first question in favor of the second. He says, "Didn't mean to make you wait, buddy," and if it's strained it's easy enough to blame on jumping down the rest of the way from the tree — the scrape of his palms against the bark and the impact of his feet on the ground.

Whatever's wrong with him, he doesn't seem concerned, or like he even really notices it, his focus completely on Bucky — the direction of his body and every minute change in expression turned fully toward him even as he tries not to actually stare — and he moves closer.

"How long?"

[notabirdcostume]

Since watching the fountain had been a bust, Sam elects to going back to just patrolling the area. Whoever had them here clearly didn't want them finding out the mechanics of transportation and Sam wasn't going to give them any further pleasure of sending random animals to attack him. At least not until he could come up with another way of catching them in the act. The fountain was still empty after all and surely they could find some way to catch someone in the process of arriving.

His timing was off this time though. Or at least, so he suspected when he heard tree branches snapping and a familiar voice cutting through the woods. He hoped he wasn't hallucinating that and honestly given the recent influx of people he actually recognizes he hopes it's who he thinks it is.

Sam steps into the clearing and scans the area and it doesn't take long before he confirms his suspicions. "Hey, so they did finally bring you here." It was really good to see Steve again, even if the circumstances sucked.

[paragon]

Still, Sam must be near enough to the fountain, to have heard Steve's muttered aside. The soles of his boots have hit terra firma, and he's looking around like he's got no idea where he is but can't just stand near the fountain all day, when he hears Sam's voice and quickly looks toward it.

"Wouldn't have waited for an invitation if I'd known you were waiting on me," Steve calls back, already heading in Sam's direction. He's a man who contains grief and joy equally in his body, keeping it all close — but not necessarily equally well, if you know what you're looking for. The relief at seeing Sam lifts his shoulders and the corner of his mouth just slightly, but it's enough.

"Who are 'they'?"

[notabirdcostume]

There are mixed emotions to be had. On the one hand, Sam finds reassurance in Steve's presence. He's a good person to have at your back and someone who could help a lot around here. On the other hand, Sam wouldn't wish this place on Steve. Sam had enough problems without having to now worry about his actual friends and not just the people he'd met while living here. The fountain was just determined to keep throwing the people Sam cared about into this place and apparently the icing on that cake was Steve Rogers.

Instead of saying all of that, however, Sam just says, "Must have gotten lost in the mail." It was easier to make a joke. Sam could address his concerns another time.

"Good question. 'They' are a pain in the ass who we only assume exists to explain some of the weird stuff going on. No one's actually come forward to take credit for any of this," he gestures at the fountain and their surroundings, "But we figure someone's gotta be pulling the strings and making all of it happen."

[paragon]

Steve follows the direction of Sam's gesture with his gaze, less because he needs the reminder than because he got served a couple of curveballs before he even really had a chance to wrap his head around the where and the how. He thinks that if Sam's had been the first face he'd seen, he would've started off on a lot firmer ground.

He turns over Sam's answer for a few seconds, frown creasing his forehead but little of his thoughts showing on his face otherwise before he looks back at him.

"Wanna give me the rundown?"

[taiyny]

She's tired of being cooped up. The same four walls, day in and day out, with very little for her to do except head into the forest to check snares or forage for edibles. The water situation changed it up — but only slightly, and while she has faith that the people who fixed the water actually did so, she's with Frank. Better the devil you know won't poison you, than the one you're not sure about. Water can look and smell fine and still require a boil order.

It's not a bad day outside, not too hot, and Natasha takes to it, first on the path towards the spring to grab herself some drinking water, and then back outside again to sit near the blacksmith's under a tree in the shade. In her hands are her scrubs top, a needle and thread; she'd torn a hole in the sleeve a few days ago and has only just now found the time to be able to repair it. It's small, but if these are the only clothes she's going to get while she's here, she wants to try and keep them in good repair for as long as she can.

Natasha doesn't make it as far as the tree, however, coming to stand square in the middle of the road, staring at a tall figure with broad shoulders and blonde hair. The fountain had brought her Clint and Thor, and Sam and Barnes were already here (even if Barnes remembered nothing simply because it hadn't happened for him yet). It stood to reason that Steve would show up eventually, because she was being forced to confront every single other demon. Why not this one, too? There was a time in her life that Natasha would have turned tail and ran upon seeing him, but that time was so long ago as to be a distant memory, clouded with snow and the sound of other girls her age. She made her bed when she sided with Tony, and again when she let Steve and Barnes go.

"Did you make it?"

To wherever it was he was going, that they'd needed the quinjet for.

[paragon]

He's hardly one of her demons, and might resent the comparison if he knew. He doesn't deserve it, as far as he knows; he never argued with her decision. Even apologized for not being able to budge from his own, though he knows what it meant to her as much as she claimed to know what Bucky means to him.

Demons aren't the problem here. He doesn't know what he'd call it; ghosts, maybe, but he hates to think of either of the two he's got in mind that way — can't think of them that way, for all that he's been left shaken by seeing them. There's something relieving about finding Natasha here now, wearing nothing but an undershirt and holding a scrub top in one hand. It reminds him of looking at her in Sam's bathroom mirror, hair damp and towel in hand — reminds him that the last few years haven't just been a fevered dream of the future. His attempts to find allies, friends, some semblance of an existence — they haven't been completely in vain.

He stops in front of her, and his brow furrows because he doesn't know what she's asking. He'd gotten the information about the raft she'd sent to him, but she would've heard about it one way or another if he'd made it there yet. If she means Siberia — she should've heard it all from Tony. Tony had at least come as a friend, if they hadn't left him as one; in the same spirit, Steve assumes, that Natasha had let them go. He says, "It wasn't what we thought," the question still heavy in his voice before he presses his lips together.

"Tony didn't tell you."

He should've seen that writing on the wall. Whatever had changed Tony's mind — and Steve assumes it was some proof of Zemo's involvement where Steve's word alone hadn't been sufficient — it had come too long after Natasha let them get away. And after — Tony still wouldn't have been in a forgiving mood. Especially if he'd figured out that what Steve knew, Natasha was likely to as well.

[taiyny]

"He didn't have to," she admits, lifting a shoulder in a shrug, the corner of her mouth in a small ghost of one of her usual teasing smiles. There's a canyon between them, she thinks, even if it's not visible. She feels every inch of the space in between them, knows that even a month ago it wouldn't nearly feel as wide as it does now. It had been easier being confronted with Sam and Clint, Sam because while they were friends, her actions had never been directly against him, so to speak, and Clint because they've been friends for years. It would take a lot more than a pissing contest between Steve Rogers and the government to break them up. But Steve—

Steve is someone she sees herself in, in a few ways. Someone she sees straying down a path that she's already walked, and it's something she doesn't want for him. He's someone she trusts, fully and utterly, and she can count on one hand the amount of people that she can say that about. Piecing something like that back together will take time, and Natasha can't be certain it's something Steve will even want from her. Letting them go may not have been enough, and she knows it.

"I found out on my own," Natasha continues, crossing her arms. "If you had told me that's where you wanted to go, I could have helped."

[paragon]

Of course she found out; he shouldn't have expected any less. It's not a bitter thought, not exactly, and he doesn't really want it to be. They moved past that a long time ago. He can never quite seem to build the callouses over the hurt that he'd need for it anyway. Maybe it makes it a little harder not to bleed on those around him, but it's better than the alternative anyway, better than forgetting what he's had. That's the last thing he wants.

(Not that it's even that easy, of course, when the people he's loved keep managing to come back into his life, though God only knows for how long.)

Steve wouldn't have thought he'd have to count Natasha among his losses, at least not by choice. By both of their choices, he's willing to admit, but if that's to remain raw and uncalloused, then the rest of her words can sure as hell still rub him the wrong way.

"I must've missed that offer. Guess you weren't standing close enough for me to hear it."

His jaw is fixed so tight it actually aches, and Steve looks away where he normally wouldn't because it's Natasha. "Just— don't, alright? You did enough."

He doesn't mean for it to sound accusing — the words are sincere — but thinks he may have fallen a little short of the mark. She says he's a bad liar, but sometimes he thinks he's even worse at it with Natasha, the truth inside of him somehow rising that much easier to the surface with her, just under his skin. An open book. So it's the best he can do, as far as olive branches go.