Discover Top Posts Tagged with #corneliabarnes

this is me trying [the woods 3/4]

You make a decision and Steve takes a chance

Word Count: 4.848

Warnings: angst, mentions of sickness, mentions of death and death-related themes, alcohol, curse words

A/N: This chapter is filled with Taylor Swift references - I would love to know which ones you guys find and what are your expectations for the final part of this story! Many thanks to the beautiful @xbuchananbarnes for your help with this one. The banner picture was found here. Dividers are from @writeyourmindaway. I hope you like it ♡

pulled the car off the road to the lookout could've followed my fears all the way down and maybe i don't quite know what to say but i'm here in your doorway i just wanted you to know that this is me trying

There is a place in Pennsylvania, a few miles past the old Swift Christmas Tree Farm, where a careful rider might notice a path off the side of the highway. If he chooses to follow this gravel road, he’ll find himself flanked by Eastern Hemlocks and Red Cedars, whose branches tangle together and the leaves whisper secrets like sisters do. “She’s here”, they’ll say. “She’s home”. At the end of this lane, the rider will encounter a house, and a gale will blow in the heart of the woods, announcing the good news to all of the forest: their child was home.

Steve turned off his motorcycle. When the rumble quieted, you heard some Blue Jays singing in the distance. Your lower back complained when you stretched, yet your boyfriend appeared completely unperturbed by the long ride.

“It’s beautiful,” he said, gaze circling the clearing, going from the house made of stone and wood to the trees surrounding it.

The door opened and an older woman skipped down the porch steps. You’d seen her a mere three weeks ago, yet your grandmother somehow looked older, more fragile. The disease was taking its toll on her body, causing her to be out of breath when she hugged you.

“You’re not supposed to run, grandma,” you chidded. She was shorter than you, shoulders slumped by age and illness, but you still hid your face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the gentle scent of home and family.

“Can you at least say hello before you start scolding me?” she replied, wrinkled hands grabbing each side of your face, as if to assess any damage. “Being in love suits you, darling. You look beautiful!”

You flustered, lips opening up in a perfect, embarrassed pout, but she was unfazed, shifting her attention to the other guest.

“You must be Steve!”, she beamed. “It’s wonderful to meet you.”

Your grandmother kissed both of Steve’s cheeks, leaving him stunned.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Y/L/N,” he cleared his throat, a soft pink blush crawling up his cheeks.

“Oh, no!” she dismissed him. “Please call me Meredith. Now, come inside. You must be tired from the journey.”

She waved you into the house, up the rickety wooden stairs and past the veranda whose railings you used to perch on to catch raindrops with your tongue.

“I’m so happy you could join us for Thanksgiving, Steve,” Meredith said as the three of you crossed the threshold. “Did you know it’s Y/N’s favorite holiday?”

“Grandma!” you reprimanded.

“What?” she raised her eyebrows, feigning innocence.

You raised your own, a silent warning for her not to at least wait until dinner to start with the embarrassing stories. Thankfully, he was oblivious to the quiet exchange.

The house reminded Steve of a cabin he stayed with his ma in upstate New York for a few months when he was eight, after a doctor suggested that the mountain air might be good for his lungs. He remembered the whistle of a train, it's red wagons gleaming brightly under the spring light, and the way it sped through fields and forests, almost to the beat of his racing heart. He remembered the smell of grass and the buzz of the cicadas singing in the late afternoon. He remembered going back to the city after his birthday and telling Bucky that the woods were magical.

The memories flowed through his bloodstream as he entered your home. The front door revealed a small living room that someone - that undoubtedly looked a lot like Tony Stark - might call cramped, but Steve thought it was cozy. Knit blankets were thrown over a cream-colored couch sitting opposite a built-in-the-wall fireplace. Across from the entrance, a large window overlooked a glittering pond and, behind the couch, there was a bookshelf overflowing with volumes, portraits and trinkets. A staircase, which he supposed was as rickety as the one outside, led to the second floor.

"You have a beautiful home, Mrs. Y/L/N," he complimented, in a voice that sounded somewhat distant to his ears, as though muffled by nostalgia.

"Meredith!" your grandmother corrected him, clearly pleased by the compliment. "And thank you! My husband and I moved here in the 1990's after he retired from the Military. We did some renovations back then, and I suppose it's time I do it again, but oh well..."

She trailed off, fast feet scurrying to the kitchen in a silent order for you to follow her, yet Steve turned to you:

"Your grandfather was in the Army?"

"Yep. My dad, too," you said, avoiding his gaze.

"You never told me that," he pointed out.

You sighed: "I know."

"Why?"

His hands went to his waist, in that defensive stance you knew all too well, and his jawline clenched in frustration.

Your phone buzzed in your back pocket, saving you from answering - at least for now.

"It's Fury," you showed him the screen. "I have to take this."

You turned, bolting outside before Steve could protest.

He exhaled, rubbing his eyes furiously. Hearing the soft tinkling of glasses coming from the kitchen, he trailed your grandmother's footsteps.

"Would you like some sweet tea, Steve?" she smiled.

He nodded, thanking her as he took the glass. Meredith groaned as she sat at the dinner table and Steve's heart squeezed in his chest. Theoretically, the woman was younger than he was, yet their bodies - and their lives - were many decades apart.

"She didn't tell you about them, did she?" Meredith asked, contemplating him with eyes just like yours.

Steve shook his head.

"Please, don't be mad at her. It's a hard subject for Y/N," the woman said. "Would you get that picture frame for me, please?"

With a bony finger, Meredith pointed at a double portrait sitting at the countertop: Both pictures showed young men in military garb, but one was noticeably older than the other, in black and white with sepia coloring the edges.

"John and Michael," she said, cradling the portrait as one would an infant. "John and I met in Japan. My father was a veteran from the Pacific, and in the late 50’s the Navy stationed him in Okinawa. So, long story short, I was this rebellious daughter of a high-ranking officer who wanted nothing to do with wars and the military and John was a good boy from Pensylvannia drafted to fight in Vietnam. Still, we fell in love, eloped and I moved to Philly while pregnant with Michael, but John only joined us in 1972.”

“Wow,” Steve smiled genuinely. “That’s incredible.”

“It is,” Meredith nodded. “And he was an incredible man. Earned all the medals he was honored with. He made it to Sergeant Major, you know? But when Michael made the decision to join S.H.I.E.L.D, John retired.”

"Y/N’s father was a S.H.I.E.L.D agent?" Steve gaped.

Meredith pursed her lips.

"My husband was a righteous man. He believed his institutions and he loved them. And Michael, like everyone that knew John, admired his father and his career. So, like any boy in his position, Michael enlisted. But he was different… I think he liked the thrill, the adrenaline rush that came with the danger.

"I'm not entirely sure how or when he joined S.H.I.E.L.D., but one evening he left Y/N on our doorstep, saying that it would be best for her if she stayed with us from then on," she continued. "He visited very little after that."

Despite the brisk autumn weather, Steve's glass of sweet tea was wet with perspiration, as if the tales he'd just heard were so alive in this house they could manifest themselves in the air, in an introduction to the absent characters.

"What happened then?" he asked, unsure if he wanted an answer.

“Well," Meredith sighed. "The official report said an IED hit his convoy in Iraq, but shortly before he left Michael said he was going to Northern Europe, so…”

“I’m sorry,” Steve whispered.

"I know," your grandmother said, and she meant it. If anyone could share her pain of losing too much to the military, it was Steve Rogers. "I know you do."

She slid her forearm across the table and squeezed his hand gently. There was so much kindness in her gaze that Steve nearly cried.

"It's not my place to meddle in your relationship," she said. "You're both adults. But please be careful with my granddaughter, Steve. She has a lot of love to give, she just doesn't know that."

Behind Meredith's frame, her bright yellow headscarf catching the light coming through the open window, Steve could see you pacing back and forth in the lawn with your phone in your ear. Tiny specks of dust glinted where the luminesce was brighter and in his mind they were the pieces of your puzzle, coming together for him like a gift from the extraordinary place you called home. He always thought you belonged at the Triskelion, sitting behind a computer or looking down at a tablet, cracking digital enigmas as fast as he could draw his next breath, but what a lovely mistake this was.

Maybe he was high on the sugar from the sweet tea, or maybe he just desperately wanted a piece of the love your grandmother told him about, but Steve thought about black holes - those wondrous forces of nature he learned about on TV a few weeks ago while cuddling you on the couch. Like a black hole, your gravity was so strong that nothing - not the grass, not the leaves, not a single fiber of Steve Roger's being - could escape your hold.

The woods were a small universe, and you were it's center.

The last of the boxes was emptied on Christmas Day.

It had snowed in the evening, leaving a light dust of white covering the grounds outside. If the temperature kept on lowering, the pond might freeze by January. When you opened the final cardboard package and found your old ice skates, you thought you should fix the rusted blades in case that happened. Or perhaps not. You were never the most skilled skater and there was no else here to drive you to the ER in case you broke your arm - it wouldn't be the first time.

For years, the house in the woods sat quiet - some during which the three-hour journey proved perfect for your grief to turn the car around and give up visiting and others when you were declared as dead as your ancestors. It was in urgent need of repairs, filled with the belongings you packed after your grandmother’s passing, but never found the courage to give away. But the heat was working. That would be enough for now.

"Are you sure you're going back there?" your cousin asked as you finished loading the car with your things. There wasn't much - your furniture was sold with the apartment and most of your clothes were moth-eaten and frayed from their long stint at a cramped storage unit.

"I've taken up your space for too long," you said. Olivia was your cousin from your mother's side, and like everyone from that part of your family, you shared little to none connection. You'd gone to her out of desperation, because you'd rather stay with your far-flung cousin after returning from the dead than with your not-so-ex-boyfriend who left you two - or was it seven? - years prior and you were extraordinarily glad she took you in. But like it always happened with your mother's family, it became too much, too soon. "Besides, it's time for me to move on."

Olivia hugged you before you drove away and it was stiff and awkward. You wouldn't miss her and you were sure she wouldn't either.

You programmed the GPS on your phone, but somewhere past Newark, you realized with a start that you were always one step ahead of it. It was like the way home was ingrained in your heart, despite the new buildings and the fresh pavement. It went beyond street lights and stop signs, following a map made of veins and arteries, rather than just paper and ink.

Rain started pouring heavily when you reached Reading and you nearly missed the gravel road off the side of the highway, but it was there, as unperturbed as the forest encircling it. As a child, you'd give them names and personalities, and dream up conversations they'd have with each other - Betty and Inez, the Hemlock twins; James, the Red Cedar; sweet Rebekah, the Sugar Maple. It felt stupid, but you wondered if they'd left too, like you did. If when the snap came, their soul was dusted from the bark, leaving nothing but trunk and root.

"No," you muttered to yourself. They'd stayed. They'd stayed and guarded the woods.

The first three days were daunting. You'd sleep until noon and spend the rest of the afternoon trying to book tickets to wherever in the world you thought would be the perfect place to start over, but something invisible always held you back from actually buying. On the fourth day, you emailed the lawyer, asking about the possibility of putting the house for sale. On the fifth day, while rearranging the boxes, you tripped and they fell, spilling hundreds of pictures on the timbered floor.

When you bent down to collect them, the first face you noticed was your father. He had a wide, carefree smile as he gently held you standing on a chair. You were looking down at a cake, where a big candle shaped like a "3" was lit up. You tiny hands were clapping, and your father looked at you with all the love in the world.

You never doubted his love as a child. You just didn't understand why he wouldn't visit often or why he couldn't have a job like the other kids' dads - a job that kept him close so he could tell you that he loved you, instead of whispering it in a forehead kiss every few months. As an adult, you still didn't doubt it - but you knew that he loved his job more. Still, seeing the affection so clear on his face was comforting.

An older, gray-haired, version of your father smiled in another picture - your grandfather. He was wearing a flannel shirt and a blue cap, and he held you on your shoulders. You remembered that it terrified you to swing in the air as he lifted you, but the moment he placed you on his back, you relaxed.

“Don’t ever let me fall, grandpa,” you’d beg, little hand clasped tightly around his.

"Never, sweet pea," he'd promise.

Behind the photograph, your grandmother had written: "John and Y/N. Summer, 1994".

She was notably absent from most of the pictures, you noticed. They must’ve been taken around the time she became interested in photography, and would spend hours experimenting with a Kodak she got at the flea market. You, on the other hand, was the perfect model - posing at the swing, by the pond, with your legs crossed in the big armchair, always smiling, always happy.

You didn’t remember this particular box from when you organized the house after her death. The photographs must’ve been stored away for nearly a decade, judging by the dust that covered them. There were albums, as well - Y/N’s first birthday, Y/N’s first school day, Y/N’s first trip to the beach - but the amount of pictures was so abundant that most were kept loose.

Dusk came and went, and, on the dawn of the sixth day, you made the decision to unpack the house.

You started with the kitchen - crystal glasses, the porcelain dish set your grandparents got as a marriage present and the beautiful Portuguese pottery. The living room came next with the books, portraits and an elaborate scheme to clean the hearth of the fireplace that you immediately regretted. You moved the furniture around the upper floor to the point you thought the ceiling might collapse, but eventually you managed to turn the mattress and push the queen bed to the window side of the master bedroom.

And when you found your old ice skates, tangled with an ancient string of Christmas light, you decided to hang them in the mantelpiece. Some of the tiny light bulbs were burnt or broken, bathing the room in a messy, uneven golden glow.

Like you, you thought. Damaged, but perhaps you could still shine again.

During the time you spent tidying up the house, you tried your best to ignore the nagging sensation that maybe this was a mistake. That wistfulness shouldn’t grow roots and boxes should stay closed, just like the dead stay dead. But you hadn’t. And when your fists crushed the last piece of cardboard, you wept. Not because you were haunted, but because you were wrong. You thought returning home would be haunting, that you would see your grandparents at every nook and corner, but you were mistaken. The creak of the wooden steps, the marks on the door frame for every inch you grew, the soft slope of the book bindings in the shelf - all of it brought back only the most generous memories of your childhood, and you basked in the newfound revelation that they were filled with a love so strong and abundant that it drowned even loud noise of absence.

You missed your grandparents, almost to the point of desperation, but there was a fondness in your grief now, because you were finally safe, in the home they built for you.

With the realization, came the decision. So in the space between Christmas and the New Years, you made three phone calls:

One for a therapist’s office in Reading, scheduling an appointment for the second week of January.

One for the bank in Switzerland where you'd wired all the money you made in your profitable years at S.H.I.E.L.D.

And one for a contractor, who, after much cajoling and the promise of advanced payment, agreed to start your renovations in early 2024.

Despite the state-of-the-art acoustics of Stark Tower, Tony’s buoyant countdown to the New Year was drowned out by the large crowd gathered outside, waiting for the Times Square’s ball drop.

The excited cheers rattled the bullet proof glass of the windows and the comforting press of Steve’s palm on your lower back tightened as the seconds closed in on midnight. Gentle finger - too gentle for a soldier - took your chin, angling your head towards his. Your hands wrapped around his shoulder, mindful of the crystal flute halfway filled with bubbly champagne.

“Happy New Year, sweetheart,” he whispered right before he kissed you. It was slow, just the calm press of his lips and easy flicks of his tongue, the sweet lingering taste of Asgardian mead. A hand cradled the back of your head and you sighed, pushing your body further into his.

And like a firework show, it burned too fast, too brightly - sparkling in the starless night before fading away in thunderous applause.

“For a man who saved the world, you look awfully glum.”

Steve let out a dry laugh.

“How should I look, then?” he asked before taking a swig of his beer. He was well into his fourth bottle, but it wasn’t like the alcohol had any effect on him.

“Less miserable, maybe?” Bucky shrugged, plopping down next to Steve on the couch. He raised his own beer bottle: “I can’t believe how fast the refrigerator worked!”

“You spent two years in Wakanda, Buck. Modern technology shouldn't surprise you as much."

“I spent two years in Wakanda in a hut," Bucky retorted. "Besides, for all the greatness of hovercrafts and magnetic shields, there's just something so fantastic about chilling a beer in half an hour..."

“I can’t wait for when you finally master the art of the microwave,” Steve snickered.

“They’re confusing, ok?” Bucky grumbled.

They settled in comfortable silence, watching a blonde popstar perform at the New Year's Eve concert in Times Square. She was halfway through a beautiful rendition of Robbie Williams’ Angels when Bucky spoke again.

"Did you call her?" he asked. "Your girl?"

Steve hadn't told Bucky about you, but he knew. He'd seen you at Natasha's memorial service and he noticed the way his best friend got home afterwards, as well as his sullen mood in the weeks that followed.

In their youth, Steve always mocked Bucky's easy infatuations. "You can't live out of love affairs, Buck," he'd say and Bucky would roll his eyes. He lived for the hot rush of blood flushing his skin in the dark, hot corners of a speakeasy as lips trickled his ear or fingernails scratched his scalp. He longed for the soft brush of fingers circling a wrist or the bump of noses before hungry mouths met. And in his juvenile ignorance, Bucky thought his life would be too short to just no have them all - so he had them.

When the war came, Bucky believed Steve had found his match with Peggy. They were complimentary in every way - both righteous, stubborn, never backing down from a fight. And what a fight it was - so grand, so terrible, so cold. There was no room for love or heartbreak those days, only combat. Steve and Peggy's courtship was a promise, meant for better times - but they never really came.

The friend Bucky encountered in 2016 was different - still tenacious and daring, but almost to the point of recklessness. Steve wasn't satisfied in snuffing out the fires, he ignited them now. Their experiences awakening in this new world were much different, but Bucky supposed they were the same kind of nearly maddening decipherment. Besides, he may have his doubts about himself, but not about Steve Rogers.

Bucky Barnes knew a broken heart when he saw one.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you about her," Steve muttered.

"You don't have to apologize," Bucky said. "I am curious, though. Sam wouldn't tell me anything."

Steve chuckled.

"Of course not. Her name is Y/N,," he started. "We met when I went to work at S.H.I.E.L.D. She was an intelligence agent, so we were always working together and… She is so smart, funny, kind and beautiful, Buck. Everyone was walking on eggshells around me, meanwhile she was giving me shit for not knowing who Beyoncé was."

"Who's Beyoncé?" Bucky asked.

"The greatest performer in the world," Steve stated. "Anyway, we became friends and after a few months, I asked her if she wanted to go on a date."

"You did?" Bucky gasped.

"I was a mess," Steve groaned. "You would've given me so much shit about it. But she said yes! And then we had a second date, a third date, a fourth date… She was the one that found out about you."

"She did?"

Steve nodded, tearing the wet label of his beer.

"She uncovered Hydra's plot inside S.H.I.E.L.D. - Pierce, Project Insight, you. After the fallout, Fury managed to take most of the blame, if you can even call it that, but she still had to testify before Congress. They treated her like some kind of criminal. By then I was already back in New York, living in the Tower, working with the Avengers again. Tony was really impressed with her work so we offered her a job."

"And did she say yes?" Bucky asked.

"She wanted to go to school, learn something new. Find another trade, any trade that didn't involve secrets and conspiracies, but I begged her to accept the position. And not for the right reasons."

"What do you mean?"

"Y/N was - is - incredibly resourceful. And I wanted to find you, find Loki's scepter, punch bad guys, save the world. I wanted to be a superhero and I knew that with her I could. I felt secure in her abilities and secure in her affections. She was my safe zone, but I don’t think I was hers - or at least I don’t think I let her know that. We weren't perfect but we were fine, I think, until the Accords happened. She wasn’t a signatary, but she agreed with Tony and Natasha and that felt like the worst kind of betrayal. The night before Peggy’s funeral we had a massive fight. I called her a coward, said…” Steve hesitated.

“Said what?” Bucky coaxed.

Steve exhaled heavily. “I said that Peggy would’ve never done that to me.”

“Jesus, Stevie,” Bucky sighed, running a hand through his newly cut hair. “You’re an idiot.”

“I know,” Steve said, but acknowledging it after all was said and done was useless. “I left for London that night without saying goodbye. And then… Everything happened.”

“Did you contact her at all while you were away?” Bucky asked.

Steve didn’t reply, but the answer was clear in his quietude. "Sometimes silence is louder than sound," you used to say. He finished off his beer, dropping the empty bottles on the coffee table with a thud.

“When Vision was attacked in Edinburgh and we brought him to the Compound I actually thought I’d see her there, you know?” he confessed. “Like it was all a bad dream and I’d find her waiting for me like she always did. But the computers were turned off, the jacked she kept on the back of her chair was gone. It was like she was never there.”

He continued: “So I went to her apartment - our apartment - and I couldn’t even look her in the eye. I was the coward, not her, never her. I was the worst kind of bastard, showing up unannounced after vanishing for years, as if I had a right to any of her answers…”

His breath hitched and Steve rubbed his eyes furiously. Bucky put his own beer down and pat his friend on the back.

“You couldn’t have known what would happen next, Steve,” he said. “That is not a guilt you should carry.”

“I can’t erase the image of her sitting in that hospital bed, Buck,” Steve croaked. “She was so lost and scared. I keep thinking that, even if everything was the same - Thanos, the snap, those five fucking pathetic years - if I’d just been braver, we’d be together now. The worst part of everything is that I let her think she meant nothing to me.”

“Where is she now?”

“At her childhood home in Pennsylvania. After Nat's funeral, she told me she needed to figure out what to do with her life, but she'd let me know once she decided,” Steve said. “Somehow I don’t think her plans include me.”

Bucky sighed.

“So you’re just going to quit?”

Steve frowned. “Quit?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “After everything, is this how the two of you will end?"

Steve opened his mouth, then paused. Bucky thought he looked like a big blonde dumb fish flapping in the wooden Red Hook docs he used to work at.

"I don't… Know?," he muttered hesitatingly.

"Clearly," Bucky snorted. "Pal, the guy I used to be is long gone. Hell, I might be the worst person to give out advice, but if you ask me, it sounds pretty stupid to sit here sulking while the only girl who's ever loved you for who you are is out there making plans that may or may not include you."

Steve perked up.

"You think I should go after her?"

"I think you should try," Bucky said. "First you left her, and then she Snapped. Her mind must be a mess! She has every reason to be confused, sad and especially angry, but you need to let her know that she's not alone."

Steve understood then: why it took so long for you to share your secrets and open your heart. Why you hated when he left for missions and the smallest of his wounds made you cry. Why you'd sometimes cling to him in the middle of the night.

"Don't leave me alone, Stevie," you begged once after your screams startled him conscious and he had to shake you awake from your nightmare.

"Never, sweetheart," he promised. But he failed you.

He craned his head, gaze finding his motorcycle keys hanging next to the door. If the snow wasn't too heavy, he could be in Pennsylvania in less than three hours.

"Please be careful with my granddaughter, Steve."

"Maybe wait until morning?" Bucky suggested, noticing where Steve's eyes had landed. "I'm presuming girls still like their beauty sleep, so maybe show up at her door at a reasonable hour?"

Steve laughed then, a real laugh.

"How did I spend eighty years without you, Buck?"

Bucky smiled.

"Trust me, pal. I have no idea."

#corneliabarnes

Trending Tags

Recently Viewed Tags

#corneliabarnes