[ James stares at the sketch for too long, poring over each pencil line and trying to make it match up to his own patchwork memory, trying to mentally fill it in with colour and detail. Waiting to see if it sparks anything.
And how in the world is he supposed to respond? They both have unlisted numbers, certainly. And he can’t exactly send in fanmail, c.o. Avengers Tower, pretty please pass this onto Captain Rogers and don’t look too closely at the return address.
So the reply comes in the form of another ruined HYDRA base: some of the armed soldiers dead and their bodies left behind, some of the technicians clearly fled out into the snow. The filing cabinets and databases and paper trail have all been left untouched; matters of interest for the good guys to sort through. On the wall of the lab, however, is a note written in a familiar hand (muscle memory sticks for some things), pinned to an old map with the pin driven in right over Bucharest: ]
Then you’re just gonna have to be faster, old man.
[ he hadn't expected a response. hoped for one, certainly, thought about what he'd do if he got one, what it would be, how it'd come—but he didn't expect one.
nat saw the note before he did. steve was checking bodies, leaving the files and the spy shit to the professional, when he heard her snort a couple feet away. his questioning noise was met with an amused hum and your friend's got jokes, rogers, and he'd joined her at the wall before he'd even realized he was moving.
he's older than me, was all steve could say, and whatever natasha said in response was lost to the buzzing in his ears.
they're stopped now at an inn on the bulgarian side of the danube, and steve is half-convinced the pin was meaningless and this whole diversion is just another in a long series of wild goose chases. natasha clearly doesn't expect to find anything in bucharest, and at this point she can probably predict bucky better than steve could.
still.
still.
he leaves a note written in the corner of a city map of bucharest tacked to a tree outside the inn, and feels like an idiot doing it. ]
That's rich, coming from the guy who was always yelling at me for getting ahead of him too quick. Which is it gonna be, speed up or slow down?
It might feel a little stupid: notes tacked to trees like a letter to an imaginary figure, talking to ghosts.
But the next answer on the tree, when it comes, doesn’t even contain a message as such: it’s just a tourist’s guide to the Botanical Gardens, pinned to the same city map Steve left behind. Yellow highlighter marking a specific spot in the garden, and a date and time scrawled in American format.
If and when (let’s be real: when) Steve goes to the rendezvous, he’ll find that it’s a well-thought-out location. A metal bench alongside a quiet lake, tucked out of the way and with privacy from the overspilling greenery. Outdoors, so you’re not jostling elbow-to-elbow with tourists crowding an indoor museum. Enough paths that you can make a run for it, if you need to. Good sightlines.
There’s a man sitting on the bench, hands buried in his jacket pockets, cap pulled low over his forehead and too-long hair, backpack hanging over one shoulder. One knee and foot bobbing restlessly against the ground, the only betrayal of his nerves. The rest of him is watching the surroundings carefully, a slow perimeter scan, always waiting for the other shoe to drop.
It’s a risk. It’s a huge fucking risk that he shouldn’t be taking, probably, but —
Well. He had to know. He wouldn’t have felt like a real person until he’d at least tried this.
Steve's not built for all this spy stuff. Shaking a tail, clandestine meetings, lying about what he's doing—none of it comes naturally to him, not the way it does for Natasha, or even Bucky. Back in the war Bucky got so good at sneaking hardly anyone but Steve knew where he was half the time, and that was before he spent over half a century as a ghost. On his best day, Steve could never hope to compete—for good or ill, he's too straightforward and guileless for that.
Which means, if he can't sense a tail, Natasha's really not following him. He didn't tell her where he was going or why, but she's certainly put it together: he's stopped asking what she thinks Bucky's next move will be, he wants to stop in Bucharest, he's going to do some solo sight-seeing? Yeah, she knows. She knows, and she hasnt insisted on coming with him. He's beyond grateful—Bucky's invite didn't include a plus one.
The best he can do as a spy is to sit next to Bucky on the bench, leaving enough space between them it's clear they're not together, and open up his sketchbook like he's here just to draw their surroundings. It's not a bad cover; the gardens really are stunning.
"I wasn't sure you'd actually be here," he says, quiet, just loud enough for their enhanced ears. "It's good to see you, Buck. You look good."
Pen to paper, Steve begins to sketch the outline of a person sitting on a bench. He's rusty, hasn't picked up a pencil since after the ice, not to mention distracted as hell—this is going to take a while.
There’s a complicated crack-fizzle-pop of undefinable emotions once the other man comes into view and sits down. The strange surreal familiarity of that voice, worn into his bones even though he couldn’t have told you Steve Rogers’ name just a few months ago. The other faint unfamiliarity that he can’t place— (The weight settling on the bench should be lighter, the eyeline lower. That’s it.)
That name, Buck, scraping along his nerves like a jagged saw. His shoulders tighten and square up.
He’s aware that he doesn’t look great (unshaven stubble, messy unshorn hair, he hasn’t exactly had the time and safety to stop by a barber), but he’s also aware that he looks, well, better. He’s been getting some sleep: actual REM hours on a real mattress, not just the numb unconsciousness of complete sedation. The hollows under his eyes aren’t as deep as they used to be. He’s been eating some fresh vegetables from Romanian markets. So, yeah. Maybe ‘good’ is a good enough stopgap.
“Wasn’t sure if I’d be here, either,” he says. His voice is a little cracked and dusty, out-of-practice. “I don’t… Could we try James, to start?”
There’s the itching restless sense that there’s a gaping gulf, the size and shape of a canyon crevasse and a frozen river and seventy-odd years, between the man Steve knew and the new version sitting beside him today.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
And how in the world is he supposed to respond? They both have unlisted numbers, certainly. And he can’t exactly send in fanmail, c.o. Avengers Tower, pretty please pass this onto Captain Rogers and don’t look too closely at the return address.
So the reply comes in the form of another ruined HYDRA base: some of the armed soldiers dead and their bodies left behind, some of the technicians clearly fled out into the snow. The filing cabinets and databases and paper trail have all been left untouched; matters of interest for the good guys to sort through. On the wall of the lab, however, is a note written in a familiar hand (muscle memory sticks for some things), pinned to an old map with the pin driven in right over Bucharest: ]
Then you’re just gonna have to be faster, old man.
no subject
nat saw the note before he did. steve was checking bodies, leaving the files and the spy shit to the professional, when he heard her snort a couple feet away. his questioning noise was met with an amused hum and your friend's got jokes, rogers, and he'd joined her at the wall before he'd even realized he was moving.
he's older than me, was all steve could say, and whatever natasha said in response was lost to the buzzing in his ears.
they're stopped now at an inn on the bulgarian side of the danube, and steve is half-convinced the pin was meaningless and this whole diversion is just another in a long series of wild goose chases. natasha clearly doesn't expect to find anything in bucharest, and at this point she can probably predict bucky better than steve could.
still.
still.
he leaves a note written in the corner of a city map of bucharest tacked to a tree outside the inn, and feels like an idiot doing it. ]
That's rich, coming from the guy who was always yelling at me for getting ahead of him too quick. Which is it gonna be, speed up or slow down?
→ action bc i’m a disaster at texts,
But the next answer on the tree, when it comes, doesn’t even contain a message as such: it’s just a tourist’s guide to the Botanical Gardens, pinned to the same city map Steve left behind. Yellow highlighter marking a specific spot in the garden, and a date and time scrawled in American format.
If and when (let’s be real: when) Steve goes to the rendezvous, he’ll find that it’s a well-thought-out location. A metal bench alongside a quiet lake, tucked out of the way and with privacy from the overspilling greenery. Outdoors, so you’re not jostling elbow-to-elbow with tourists crowding an indoor museum. Enough paths that you can make a run for it, if you need to. Good sightlines.
There’s a man sitting on the bench, hands buried in his jacket pockets, cap pulled low over his forehead and too-long hair, backpack hanging over one shoulder. One knee and foot bobbing restlessly against the ground, the only betrayal of his nerves. The rest of him is watching the surroundings carefully, a slow perimeter scan, always waiting for the other shoe to drop.
It’s a risk. It’s a huge fucking risk that he shouldn’t be taking, probably, but —
Well. He had to know. He wouldn’t have felt like a real person until he’d at least tried this.
no subject
Which means, if he can't sense a tail, Natasha's really not following him. He didn't tell her where he was going or why, but she's certainly put it together: he's stopped asking what she thinks Bucky's next move will be, he wants to stop in Bucharest, he's going to do some solo sight-seeing? Yeah, she knows. She knows, and she hasnt insisted on coming with him. He's beyond grateful—Bucky's invite didn't include a plus one.
The best he can do as a spy is to sit next to Bucky on the bench, leaving enough space between them it's clear they're not together, and open up his sketchbook like he's here just to draw their surroundings. It's not a bad cover; the gardens really are stunning.
"I wasn't sure you'd actually be here," he says, quiet, just loud enough for their enhanced ears. "It's good to see you, Buck. You look good."
Pen to paper, Steve begins to sketch the outline of a person sitting on a bench. He's rusty, hasn't picked up a pencil since after the ice, not to mention distracted as hell—this is going to take a while.
no subject
That name, Buck, scraping along his nerves like a jagged saw. His shoulders tighten and square up.
He’s aware that he doesn’t look great (unshaven stubble, messy unshorn hair, he hasn’t exactly had the time and safety to stop by a barber), but he’s also aware that he looks, well, better. He’s been getting some sleep: actual REM hours on a real mattress, not just the numb unconsciousness of complete sedation. The hollows under his eyes aren’t as deep as they used to be. He’s been eating some fresh vegetables from Romanian markets. So, yeah. Maybe ‘good’ is a good enough stopgap.
“Wasn’t sure if I’d be here, either,” he says. His voice is a little cracked and dusty, out-of-practice. “I don’t… Could we try James, to start?”
There’s the itching restless sense that there’s a gaping gulf, the size and shape of a canyon crevasse and a frozen river and seventy-odd years, between the man Steve knew and the new version sitting beside him today.
Maybe they’ve got that in common.