Omaha Beach, Normandy, Monday Afternoon
May. 26th, 2008 01:33 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
screwyoumarvelOn the one hand, Steve didn’t like cell phones. They eroded manners in public, he felt. He’d overheard far too much personal information about total strangers since he'd thawed out. On the other hand, as a professional superhero, they’d made being on call a whole lot easier than it might have been otherwise.
On the other other hand, they let him do this. He dialed his apartment in New York, and waited until someone picked up.
“Hello?” Bucky asked warily.
”Are you busy?”
”No. How did you get this number?”
”…it’s my old home phone number, Buck.”
Bucky had to think about that for a moment. Steve knew that silence. It was the silence of the caught out. ”Fair enough. What are you doing calling me here?”
”It was the only number I knew that might reach you.”
”What if it was tapped?”
”It’s not tapped.”
”Okay, it’s not. But still.”
”You worry too much. Guess where I am right now?”
”Sulking in your basement like Achilles in his tent?”
That made Bucky Patroclus in his armor, and Steve didn’t like how that story ended. “No. Guess again.”
”Judging from your last postcard, somewhere in Greece? A beach, maybe. Calling to gloat?”
”No. But you got part of it right.”
Bucky sighed. “I give up. Tell me. You know you want to.”
”I’m in France. Normandy. Omaha Beach.”
Bucky was silent for a long time. Then he inhaled and breathed out, “Damn.”
“Yeah.”
“What’s it like?”
”It’s like a beach. There’s a memorial. And the cemetery. You’re gonna come here with me someday. Don’t argue,” he said, cutting Bucky off before he could even begin. “You are. You said you were, back then, so you are. And then we’re going to go to Paris, and find a jazz club, and dance. Because it’s Paris, and because we can. You can bring Natasha.” Maybe he’d bring Sharon, if they found her and she wasn’t crazy.
It was there. Right there, gnawing at the corners of his consciousness, maybe more than it ever had been before, as he stood here where he’d seen good men die, with the waves crashing in his ears and at his feet. Sharon. Take my breath… What—
And Bucky was talking again, and it was gone. “I think you’d have a hard time getting Natasha to say no to going dancing in Paris. I know when I’m outnumbered and outgunned.”
”Good,” Steve said with half a grin. “I’ll be looking forward to it.”
He was about to say something else, about the beach, about how weird it was to stand here and not have bullets raining down on him, when Bucky suddenly said, very quickly, “I have to go. Visitors. I'll keep you posted." Click. He was going to have to teach that boy about manners. Steve stood there for a while longer, staring out at the ocean, then went to find his shoes. He couldn’t stay in the past forever, after all.
((NFB/I due to distance; OOC okay. Happy Memorial Day.))
On the other other hand, they let him do this. He dialed his apartment in New York, and waited until someone picked up.
“Hello?” Bucky asked warily.
”Are you busy?”
”No. How did you get this number?”
”…it’s my old home phone number, Buck.”
Bucky had to think about that for a moment. Steve knew that silence. It was the silence of the caught out. ”Fair enough. What are you doing calling me here?”
”It was the only number I knew that might reach you.”
”What if it was tapped?”
”It’s not tapped.”
”Okay, it’s not. But still.”
”You worry too much. Guess where I am right now?”
”Sulking in your basement like Achilles in his tent?”
That made Bucky Patroclus in his armor, and Steve didn’t like how that story ended. “No. Guess again.”
”Judging from your last postcard, somewhere in Greece? A beach, maybe. Calling to gloat?”
”No. But you got part of it right.”
Bucky sighed. “I give up. Tell me. You know you want to.”
”I’m in France. Normandy. Omaha Beach.”
Bucky was silent for a long time. Then he inhaled and breathed out, “Damn.”
“Yeah.”
“What’s it like?”
”It’s like a beach. There’s a memorial. And the cemetery. You’re gonna come here with me someday. Don’t argue,” he said, cutting Bucky off before he could even begin. “You are. You said you were, back then, so you are. And then we’re going to go to Paris, and find a jazz club, and dance. Because it’s Paris, and because we can. You can bring Natasha.” Maybe he’d bring Sharon, if they found her and she wasn’t crazy.
It was there. Right there, gnawing at the corners of his consciousness, maybe more than it ever had been before, as he stood here where he’d seen good men die, with the waves crashing in his ears and at his feet. Sharon. Take my breath… What—
And Bucky was talking again, and it was gone. “I think you’d have a hard time getting Natasha to say no to going dancing in Paris. I know when I’m outnumbered and outgunned.”
”Good,” Steve said with half a grin. “I’ll be looking forward to it.”
He was about to say something else, about the beach, about how weird it was to stand here and not have bullets raining down on him, when Bucky suddenly said, very quickly, “I have to go. Visitors. I'll keep you posted." Click. He was going to have to teach that boy about manners. Steve stood there for a while longer, staring out at the ocean, then went to find his shoes. He couldn’t stay in the past forever, after all.
((NFB/I due to distance; OOC okay. Happy Memorial Day.))
