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}
→ 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.