Steve remembered the words as he woke back up. At first he dismissed them as lies from Loki; something said to give him the upper hand, unaware of the cruelty in them. As Steve started with the clean-up effort, he quietly seethed over them. It had been decades for everyone here. Enough time that even the monument in the Smithsonian dedicated in his best friend's honor had worn marks where hands had rubbed off paint and plastic. But for Steve it felt like months. Even now, sometimes he would wake up, wondering where the snoring body next to him had gone. Songs on the radio would remind him of an off-key voice belting out of an open window. There was so much here to remind him of the brother he'd lost. And Loki had thrown it at him like so much gravel in the eyes. Somehow knowing that it would hurt him worse than anything else.
And that thought, right there, was where the questions began for him.
How had Loki known, he wondered? He was a god, yes. And the museums spoke of their friendship. But how would Loki have known that those three words would stop him cold? How could anyone have possibly known what the possibility of his best being alive could have done to him. And, more than that, why choose that as the deceit? Loki could have done anything. So many things. Could have turned into Bucky. But he didn't. He said, instead, that Bucky was alive.
He needed to prove that was as impossible as he thought or he would likely never sleep again.
It wasn't as easy as he thought. People were reluctant to open the files he needed and no one except him seemed quite as bothered at the lack of a search for the body. He'd had more important things going on at the time and of course no one should have been able to survive that fall. But what if...
What if. That was the doubt plaguing him every day and every night. What if he'd survived. What if a miracle happened? Why would someone say he was alive if he wasn't? Why would Loki choose that lie instead of any other? There were no good answers and more questions piling up by the day. Until, out of desperation, he vented to Natasha. And suddenly this wild goose chase found its first feather.
It wasn't much. Something out of Russia and connected to Hydra that just so happened to be in the right place and the right time to be suspicious. That lead to another file. Another story. An assassination. A ghost story. An impossible, insane idea. One that Steve couldn't shake because it answered those 'what ifs' so well. Even if he'd prefer death for his friend, instead. Even if this was worse, so much worse, than he could ever have imagined.
He promised he wouldn't pursue it. There would be a plan, Natasha said. She showed him her scar and swore that she would figure out where and when to make an approach. He'd agreed over the phone so Nat couldn't read the lies all over his face, hung up the phone, and booked a ticket for France.
The file in his hand was the details of a hit. A diplomat from a small, penniless country in Africa that Steve couldn't see the risk in. He was flanked by women and guards, though, so clearly the idea that the diplomat was a target hadn't escaped Wakanda. Steve dressed in a suit, trying to look every piece a guest as he scanned the crowd of the gala for a face. A specific face. One he hoped to see as much as he hoped not to.
This was insane, he told himself. But then again, he was a ninety-year old man that got thawed out to fight aliens. So what really was the standard for sanity, anymore?
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2019-04-26 08:04 pm (UTC)Steve remembered the words as he woke back up. At first he dismissed them as lies from Loki; something said to give him the upper hand, unaware of the cruelty in them. As Steve started with the clean-up effort, he quietly seethed over them. It had been decades for everyone here. Enough time that even the monument in the Smithsonian dedicated in his best friend's honor had worn marks where hands had rubbed off paint and plastic. But for Steve it felt like months. Even now, sometimes he would wake up, wondering where the snoring body next to him had gone. Songs on the radio would remind him of an off-key voice belting out of an open window. There was so much here to remind him of the brother he'd lost. And Loki had thrown it at him like so much gravel in the eyes. Somehow knowing that it would hurt him worse than anything else.
And that thought, right there, was where the questions began for him.
How had Loki known, he wondered? He was a god, yes. And the museums spoke of their friendship. But how would Loki have known that those three words would stop him cold? How could anyone have possibly known what the possibility of his best being alive could have done to him. And, more than that, why choose that as the deceit? Loki could have done anything. So many things. Could have turned into Bucky. But he didn't. He said, instead, that Bucky was alive.
He needed to prove that was as impossible as he thought or he would likely never sleep again.
It wasn't as easy as he thought. People were reluctant to open the files he needed and no one except him seemed quite as bothered at the lack of a search for the body. He'd had more important things going on at the time and of course no one should have been able to survive that fall. But what if...
What if. That was the doubt plaguing him every day and every night. What if he'd survived. What if a miracle happened? Why would someone say he was alive if he wasn't? Why would Loki choose that lie instead of any other? There were no good answers and more questions piling up by the day. Until, out of desperation, he vented to Natasha. And suddenly this wild goose chase found its first feather.
It wasn't much. Something out of Russia and connected to Hydra that just so happened to be in the right place and the right time to be suspicious. That lead to another file. Another story. An assassination. A ghost story. An impossible, insane idea. One that Steve couldn't shake because it answered those 'what ifs' so well. Even if he'd prefer death for his friend, instead. Even if this was worse, so much worse, than he could ever have imagined.
He promised he wouldn't pursue it. There would be a plan, Natasha said. She showed him her scar and swore that she would figure out where and when to make an approach. He'd agreed over the phone so Nat couldn't read the lies all over his face, hung up the phone, and booked a ticket for France.
The file in his hand was the details of a hit. A diplomat from a small, penniless country in Africa that Steve couldn't see the risk in. He was flanked by women and guards, though, so clearly the idea that the diplomat was a target hadn't escaped Wakanda. Steve dressed in a suit, trying to look every piece a guest as he scanned the crowd of the gala for a face. A specific face. One he hoped to see as much as he hoped not to.
This was insane, he told himself. But then again, he was a ninety-year old man that got thawed out to fight aliens. So what really was the standard for sanity, anymore?
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