( 𝐌𝐄𝐀𝐋 ) ; one muse makes the other a warm meal to make them feel better.
"what is that?"
the aroma drifting from the stovetop is the first thing that really reaches him, a rich and buttery warmth that temporarily pushes back the stale grey vacuum of his own thoughts as steve lets himself be guided toward the table by a gentle but firm palm on his shoulder. he tries to offer a smile, though it probably comes across as a clumsily disjointed twitch of his mouth, his entire body still moving with the slow and muddy inertia of someone who hasn't truly slept without a nightmare in months. sam is already in the thick of it, moving seamlessly between the sizzling pans and the clutter of the breakfast table while managing a small army of children who have abandoned their plates entirely to crowd around the kitchen threshold, their small voices rising in a chorus of blunt, unfiltered questions about the overgrown wilderness of the beard taking over steve's jawline. he knows he looks a mess, knows he should have found a razor weeks ago, but the tangled mass of hair had been a convenient mask during his last long stretch of off the grid work, a simple way to blur his features into the background of crowded transit stations and forgotten coastal towns where nobody expected to see a ghost. it is a convenient excuse to tell himself, though the deeper reality is far less noble; he simply hasn't possessed the internal fuel to care about the reflection in the mirror, his existence having lessened to a punishing repetition of fighting until his knuckles bleed and then collapsing into a blank sleep, only to wake up and find another target. there is a strange, protective comfort in letting the hair grow thick and untamed, a way of ensuring that people keep their distance, because the absolute last thing he wants right now is for anyone to look too closely at the hollowed out expression in his eyes or realize how desperately he wishes he could just fade away back into the shadows like a wanted fugitive running out the clock again. he has been tearing himself apart at a frightening pace-- but when sam kept ringing his phone, refusing to let the line go cold, the steady persistence of that voice finally cracked through his defenses, and the promise of a lovely kitchen and a homecooked meal became a pull too powerful to resist. yet even here, surrounded by the bright clatter of silverware and the sweet scent of browning sugar, the space directly to his left feels completely vacant, a noticeable void where natasha should be sitting, her absence a blatantly unmentioned presence that everyone gracefully avoids naming because to speak it aloud would mean breaking the fragile peace of the morning. steve keeps his mouth shut, locking the memory behind his teeth, though his mind is still reeling from the trick his eyes had played on him just forty-eight hours ago in a miserable, sun-bleached motel room, where for a single breathtaking second he could have sworn she was sitting on the end of the mattress, looking at him with that typically dry smirk of hers. if he was losing his mind before her sacrifice, he is entirely certain now that the line between what is real and what is gone is beginning to crumble completely.
he finds a bitter sort of comfort in the knowledge that sam understands the exact shape of his pain, having spent years pulling broken soldiers back from the ledge, which is exactly why there are no exhausting heart to hearts or demands for an explanation; instead, sam simply gives him the grace to exist as a monolithic fixture on the living room couch, letting him sink into the cushions without judgment. bucky is a different story, monitoring him with a very not subtle, hyper-vigilant intensity that manifests in the frequent, searching glances thrown his way from the stove, not a delicate tip-toeing-- they have survived too many trenches together to ever dance around each other's moods-- but rather a continuous unspoken assessment of his stability that steve stubbornly chooses to ignore. he forces his attention down to the plate instead, focused entirely on the small motions of breakfast, meticulously sliding a knife across a slice of toast to coat it in butter and a thick layer of strawberry jam before taking a huge bite that fills his mouth with the crunch of charred crust and sweet fruit. the bacon is perfectly crisp, and the pancakes are thick and fluffy, a reminder of a level of comfort he hasn't tasted since before the world split in half, forcing an appreciative nod from his chin as he looks up to catch sam's eye before immediately dropping his gaze back to the porcelain. "s'good," he mumbles around the food, the words small but entirely genuine, because the truth is he feels an almost painful gratitude for being allowed into this house; he had tried to learn his way around the stove back at the compound, spending cozy afternoons watching natasha demonstrate how to properly season a pan or balance flavors, but his own attempts always turned out grey and utilitarian, lacking whatever secret, comforting magic sam seems to throw into a simple skillet.
he washes the sweet grease down with a cold swallow of orange juice, looking past the smallest child who is still staring at him with wide, unblinking curiosity from across the table, entirely aware of what a bizarre spectacle he must present to a kid. he is a towering, weathered beast of a man compared to the clean-shaven, brightly colored icon that used to decorate their school notebooks and trading cards, his expression stripped of that easy, old fashioned optimism that people used to rely on to feel safe. he tells himself he is trying to find his way back to that person, that he is putting in the effort to heal, but being inside this warm house makes him realize what a massive lie that is, the sheer domestic peace of sam and bucky's life together highlighting every single thing he will never have for himself. it is an entire lifetime of birthdays and quiet sundays that he might have dreamed about once, a beautiful reality that is completely out of reach now, and while he doesn't harbor an ounce of resentment toward the couple for building it, the realization that his own future has been completely emptied of that warmth is a bitter pill to swallow. he refuses to let his mind wander back to natasha-- refuses to speculate on whether they could have found some version of this joyful life together if they had both survived the battle, because admitting that they might have had a chance while she was alive is a kind of torment he isn't strong enough to endure.
come on, rogers, get it together, he berates himself internally, forcing the rising panic down deep into his chest before it can show on his face, determined not to let a kitchen full of children witness the ex-captain america everyone thought was invincible come completely undone over a plate of eggs. "can someone pass the syrup?" he asks, his voice rough but clear as he masterfully resets his posture, shifting right back into the familiar role of the stoic unbothered soldier who can take a hit and keep moving forward, ignoring the way the kids continue to whisper their blunt observations about his appearance. really, it's fine, he tells himself as he reaches for the glass pitcher; he has survived frozen oceans and alien invasions, and he isn't going to break over a family breakfast, no matter how much it hurts to be alive. @her0eswelcome