(yes I know this is NOT Charlie and I’m so sorry for that but my pre-endgame jitters mean my old hyperfixation with cap is back in full force so I’m sorry!! Also I won’t post spoilers, so don’t worry about that. I’m sticking firmly with my pre-endgame thoughts. obviously though after 12:30am EST on Saturday, feel free to MESSAGE ME YOUR EVERY THOUGHT ABOUT IT.) alright, well...I hope you like it, at least a little bit. let’s see how far my current momentum takes me with this (and thanks @missredherring for the idea).
***
“You need a distraction. I’ve never seen you this self-destructive, Steve. You’re going.”
“Don’t you think there’s more important things I should be doing?”
“I don’t see you doing them.”
***
“Does anyone have any questions? No? Alright then, let’s get back to it.”
Noise filled the room as everyone got situated, focused on the task at hand.
All Steve saw was an empty canvas. It sat there, waiting on the easel, just to spite him. “Whose dumb idea was this,” he sighed to himself, getting up off the stool. His intentional lack of progress was starting to become obvious to everyone else. Heaven help whoever decided to ask him about it.
No. Relax. Otherwise you’ve wasted your time here.
He knew it wasn’t dumb, there was great benefit in creatively expressing grief and other strong emotions, but it felt wrong to be here while everyone else sat in a void somewhere, out of reach. What would he tell Bucky when he brought him back?
‘Hey, sorry I took so long, I decided to join a therapy group where we paint our feelings. Thanks for being so patient.’
If. If he brought him back.
“Tell me what this division means. Why is it so stark in comparison to everything else?”
The small woman studied the canvas beside Steve, listening in great detail to his neighbor’s explanation.
“...it’s all about balance, like how everything ended up split right down the middle…”
Balance. Balance. Balance. Oh God—
Steve didn’t notice he was making a fist until the brush snapped like a twig in his hand. He didn’t even remember picking it up.
The group leader laid a gentle hand on his neighbor’s shoulder, trying to urge him back to his canvas so he wasn’t openly gawking at Steve’s reaction.
“Mr. Rogers, I seem to remember you working on the same blank canvas last week.”
Steve bit back his impulsive response. How could she know how little he wanted to be here? How it felt to be tossed aside by the very monster who did this, who made this group necessary? To be borderline complicit in the sudden disappearance of 50% of the world’s population?
“What emotion is prevailing today?” She could read it in his face.
“Anger.” He bit the inside of his cheek. Self-loathing.
“What’s a color you associate with anger? You can start there. Just get something out of there.” She tapped the side of her head.
She sighed as he failed to answer, retreating to a cabinet behind him. “For me, it’s red. Wrath. Fury. Blood. That’s obvious. For you, though…” She returned, two tubes of paint in hand. She held them out to him, waiting for his reaction. “I’d imagine it’s a bit different.”
Red and blue. Colors he usually thought of fondly. But together…
He took them hesitantly, setting them on the counter beside him, but not eager to pick up another brush.
“I think if you stopped fighting for once, you’d make some real progress.” She held a new brush out to him, her other hand open, waiting for him to give up the brush he’d snapped in two.
With a deep, meditative breath, he gently set the broken handle into her hand and took the new brush. He spent a good amount of time looking down at it, both ashamed at his lack of control but also still feeling a bit defiant.
What would Tony say about his recent behavior? Would he ever see him again? Would he ever see any of them again?
His friends.
The instructor walked away, hands fiddling with the broken brush as she observed everyone else’s work.
“Can I borrow the blue?”
The voice that interrupted his thoughts was full of hesitation.
As Steve turned to look at the person standing to his left, he saw your eyes go a bit wide. “Only if you’re not using it…”
He squeezed his eyes shut, shame washing over him. What kind of unhinged mess was he that he frightened people just by looking at them?
“Sorry. I’m sorry. Here.” He held out the paint to you.
“It’s alright.”
He felt like he should say something more, but he didn’t know what else he could possibly talk about.
So he left it at that.
***
Could you have picked a worse time to try to talk to him?
No. No, you couldn’t have.
Of freaking course you’d waste yet another opportunity to actually carry on a conversation with one of The Avengers. Not that you were a fan, it all seemed so reckless, really, but seeing him in the flesh…
It was a bit of a let-down.
No, really, it was. He looked as defeated as he probably felt, considering everything that’s happened. It’s a wonder he even went out anymore, and to your therapy group, no less.
Though after this session you didn’t think you’d see him back next week.
As you returned your attention to your own mixed emotions smeared across the canvas, you uncapped the blue, pushing some of the paint out onto the palette.
“What does it mean?”
You didn’t realize he’d stepped in behind you. You did your best to disguise your surprise before turning slightly so you could see him out of the corner of your eye. He was quite tall.
He asked you a question.
You could hardly rationalize it to yourself, let alone to someone else. “I’m not exactly sure,” you confessed. “I might’ve started with an idea, but I’m pretty sure I forgot it at some point.” Your canvas was currently a swirl of all sorts of colors, but the center was dark.
Pretty representative of your current state. Nice and bright on the outside, but inside... it was all too much.
“I’m not usually one for abstract pieces, but…”
But?!
“It feels like a place I don’t want to go.”
You frowned, turning to look up at him. You wished you hadn’t. The full weight of his attention was on you and you were now acutely aware of it. His eyes were very blue. “I’m not sure if that’s a critique or a compliment.”
“Is it possible to mean both?” There was almost a fraction of a smile in his eyes, though not in the rest of his face. You got a feeling that the usual Steve Rogers was much more easy-going than this.
“Well it’s got to at least be marginally better than the blank space over there,” you shrugged, gesturing towards his still-blank canvas.
“I’m working on it.”
“Right.” You raised an eyebrow, a smile spreading across your face. “Thank you.” You held out the tube to him, watching him carefully as he reached for it. He was gentle and slow, possibly aware of his imposing presence. As he returned to his seat on the stool you swore you saw the corner of his mouth lift a little.
Don’t.
A few seconds later he stood, heading over to his canvas. You resisted smiling as much as you could as he finally started getting his colors together.
It wasn’t because of you. It has nothing to do with you.
***
He cut in with sketchy black lines, getting something close to a plan on the canvas before he started adding color. He was at a loss of what to paint until you informed him that even you didn’t know. It was all about what he was feeling.
All he wanted was to go back, before everything.
Where would the world be if Steven Grant Rogers from Brooklyn hadn’t taken the serum? Possibly better off? It was easy to argue that now. But he knew if he said as much, there would be plenty of people eager to tell him no. He was never one to sit on the sidelines, either. And despite recent events, there were a lot of other people he’d been able to help.
As hard as it was to be here, he needed to be.
***
“Alright everyone, this was an illuminating hour, why don’t we pick this up next week?”
There was a wave of shuffling, chairs moving, people passing through the center of the room to reach the door. Steve picked up his canvas and moved to the back of the room to lean it up against some of the cabinets, out of the way.
As he went back for his bag, he met you halfway, still hesitant to reach out, but feeling emboldened by his sudden bit of—
“Progress?” you asked, an eyebrow raised as you also headed back to store your canvas. Steve waited for you in between some of the tables.
“Progress,” he conceded, picking at the paint dried on his hands. He looked up in time to see you tuck a bit of hair behind your ear. He realized with a jolt the kind of warm, nervous state he was in. He hadn’t felt like this since—
“Do you feel any better now that you’ve started?”
“I do, actually.”
He fell in step beside you as you returned to gather your things.
“So you’ll be back next week?”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” he joked, smiling slightly as he followed you to the door. He realized he didn’t have anywhere to go, or at least didn’t have any immediate plans. He felt like if he went back now, he’d lose any progress he made. He couldn’t blame everyone, it was a grave defeat, one he wasn’t sure they’d be able to recover from. He wanted to enjoy this lighter feeling for a little longer.
“It does help, at least a little bit. It’s better than doing nothing and not acknowledging it. At least for me it is.”
“It has its benefits,” he agreed.
He picked up his pace just a little to reach the door first, holding it open for you as you passed through it and into the chilly night air.
He shook his head as you thanked him. “No need.”
***
It took you a moment to realize he was following you. Not following exactly, but letting you dictate where the two of you were going.
He didn’t want to go home, you realized.
“I think I’m gonna stop for a coffee. Do you want to…?”
He watched you point to the door. Realization dawned on him and he pulled his hands out of his pockets. “Sure, yeah, that would be great.”
You pulled the door open before he could get to it and stepped inside. His hand was high above you, keeping it open until he was standing behind you, eyes up towards the menu.
“What do you usually get?”
He smiled at himself. “Oh, I’m pretty boring. I haven’t experimented much, just a regular coffee for me, thank you.”
“What, they didn’t have frappuccinos in the forties?”
“Wow, we’ve been talking for all of five minutes and you’ve already found my deepest insecurities.”
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist.”
“So it’s safe to say you know who I am.” He avoided eye contact, you noticed, watching his eyes scan the board even though he wasn’t going to change his order.
“I don’t know you. I know the most superficial basics about Captain America, or at least what can be found at the exhibit in—”
“Don’t remind me.”
“What, you don’t visit your own exhibit? You’re practically a walking, talking fossil, you should be proud—”
“Whoa, whoa,” he interrupted, his face lighting up. He looked a far cry from the moody, brooding artist back in that room.
You reached out in your laughter and laid a hand on his arm in an attempt to calm him down. Even through his worn leather jacket you could feel how warm he was.
“Why don’t you pick out a table that allows you to see all the corners, and I’ll go...order you your boring coffee?”
He heard the challenge and his amusement was clear, but he didn’t say anything else. With a nod, he left to find a place to sit. He also left you to stew in your nerves.
What the hell were you doing buying Captain America a coffee on a Tuesday night?
Moments before a mission, with the hum of the engine as their background noise, it was always silent.
Vows and promises had been long exchanged through gestures and expression. The brushing of a cheek to ask each other to come home safe. The clasping of his hand, a slight nuzzle to say “Yes.” Warning eyes to tell each other something was awry. A tug to tell them to run.
“Even if there’s a small chance,” that we won’t survive, her breath hitched as she spoke, “We owe it to everyone who’s not in this room to try.”
Barton clenched his eyes. Harshly, he said. “I know. But when we go back… Do this all over again, I don’t know if I want it to be the same.”
I don’t want to lose them, I don’t want to see them fade into dust because I failed them again.
He can remember how they were making dinner, with Cooper and Lila engrossed over their cartoon while he bounced Nathaniel in his arms. How Laura looked with the evening light trailing through the clear window, bringing out the browns in her hair like a golden silhouette.
Then, the knife she held clattered to the ground. His family stills.
From the solid and tangible they crumble into dust, and he remembered how there was nothing left to hold but the hollow in his heart.
(How he gnashed and screamed and hurt but for all his sight he could not find them--)
“I can’t do that again,” he told her shakily. “Nat, I can’t.”
As much fun as the Thanksgiving holiday had been, Kat knew that there was a lot of work to get back to and the winter season offered some opportunities for spell-research that she simply couldn't pass along. The longer nights were particularly good, according to some of the research she'd done and now she had the time to try that out in practice.
And so, once she considered herself sufficiently recovered from her turkey coma (and the after-effects of the sangria), Kat was back down in her workroom, singing quietly to herself as a new spell came together. 'Christmas' per-se didn't mean much to her, but the idea of the solstice and the returning of light to the world-- well, if that wasn't a good time to be working on anti-demon magic, she had no idea when a good time was.
Things were coming together fairly well, too, she thought as she checked over some notes. True, there was a significant amount of magic bouncing around her little workshop, but it wasn't dangerous (actually, she thought it was rather pretty, a little like tree lights), and no portals had opened up, so she wasn't too worried. Besides, it wasn't like anyone ever came down here, unless it was urgent.
