Loss is the Great Lesson (Ultimates fic)

[jazzypom.livejournal.com]

Title: Loss is the Great Lesson
Author: jazzypom
Rated: PG-13 for language and concepts.
Beta read: No. There might be the odd misadventure against grammar, but no war crimes.
Universe: Ultimates fic.
Summary: A friend passes, and Steve finds himself adrift.
Disclaimer: Characters and situations are the property of Stan Lee and Marvel Comics. No profit is being made off this fan-written work.
Notes: British spellings. Astonishingly, not a prompt. I should have posted this ages ago but kept forgetting. Approx 2700 words.



i

When Bucky passed away at Mount Sinai, Steve felt the give in his moorings, and was at a loss to steel himself against the drift.

In his grief and distress, he turned to Gail, and found himself seated in her living room; watching her stringed hands flying over loops on a needle, with the speed and precision of a loom.

"It's for Sharon's youngest," Gail said, answering the unspoken question. "He's worn the other blanket to bits, and wants a new one by grandma."

"Gail," Steve said, wanting to say more but unable to. They were in the house at Cedar Street, and the house smelt of cherry blossoms and her. The living room was a testament to the Barnes' efforts at family: framed works from the Barnes' wedding photos on the coffee table to children in various stages of birth to adulthood, to them having their own children decorated the eggshell coloured walls. Apart from the clickity-clack of metal needles as they moved against each other, there was the Bucky shaped quiet that pressed against them both.

Gail sat in a cosy armchair, her knit basket resting beside Bucky's steel grey oxygen tank.

"Is there anything I can do?"

"No," Gail shook her head, her voice surprisingly strong as she paused her knitting, and placed her hand over his. It was gnarled, showing the marks of time, with raised veins on its back, and knobby knuckles. There was the glint and cluster of wedding rings on her fourth finger. Steve lifted his gaze from their joined hands to her face, saw the understanding there, and the soft smile. "It's been a long time in coming, Steve. I've been prepared oh... for a while," Gail's smile was soft with acceptance.

"You've only just come back. I'm fine."

Steve opened his mouth to answer, only to be interrupted by the clump of feet down the stairs, and a choked cry.

Instinctively, Steve shot to his feet, ready for anything, only to find himself looking at a younger Gail holding an old fashioned box of a camera. For a brief second, Steve remembered the first time Gail spoke to him, while they were watching a movie at the cinema, all those years ago. Gail had been bandbox pretty, like this woman was, bouncing brunette curls, all dark liquid eyes and full mouth. But this woman was a tad older than he remembered Gail to be, before he left for the war, her eyes glassy with tears. With a start, Steve recognised the black and silver camera in her hands, the oddly rectangular camera with the accordion like extension of its shutter. Steve even remembered the name of it: the Ensign Auto Range 220. It was one of Bucky's cameras that went to the war with them both, and came back to Gail with its owner.

"Mom," the woman wailed, voice waterlogged, before she dropped on the sofa, in the place where Steve had been sitting before. Gail put down her knitting, opened her arms and drew her daughter close while she sobbed.

In the doorway stood two boys, and they had the stamp of Bucky on their features.


Steve quietly stood there, taking in the picture of Gail's fingers as they stroked her daughter's hair, the soothing timbre of her voice as she soothed. Then, her, "Come boys, give us a hug," and they ran over, their little heads on the women's lap, their chubby hands clinging to folds of the women's skirts.

Unable to take any more, frustrated by his impotence, Steve left.


ii

To Steve's great surprise, Tony Stark offered Gail the option of a soloist at Bucky's funeral service. To his greater surprise, Gail accepted.

Carmen Carta performed Ave Maria; her voice riding on the swell of stringed notes, never outracing, never staggering behind. Both voice and notes surged from ground as they took to the air, swirling like oxygen rich flame, soaring past the arches of the roof of the church into sky and beyond. The lyrics poured from her, lit and pure. At the apex of the song, the notes were white shards of emotion that pierced the heart shattering numbness and cynicism alike; drawing tears from most everyone in attendance. When her voice stilled, notes floating away like feathers in the wind, Steve only clutched the head rest of the front pew a tad tighter.

iii

The reception for the funeral was boisterous. The evening, a gentle contrast to the events of the day was springlike and warm; and people gathered in the garden enjoying its fragrant breezes. The hired picnic tables were laid out with brightly checked cloths, their legs literally curving from the weight of the food.

Steve was with the rest of the remaining members of his squadron. Everyone, out of respect to Bucky came in their dress uniforms.

"Hey, Steve, still filling out them threads, eh?" Donnie Hudson ribbed, and the rest of the men laughed with him. Steve smiled, although his amusement was tempered by the fact that the other men's clothes hung from their frames, like the ghosts of their youth. He stood out, an oak tree among toad stools, and it was unfair, he should be like them.

"Squadron five, Bucky Barnes. Remember how he'd take pictures of everything? Even that time when we got the Krauts on the table?"

"Yeah," Steve chuckled at the memory, "and Zaleski had to bribe Bucky with extra C-Rations not to print that picture. Hey, whatever happened to Zaleski anyway?"

There was an awkward pause at this, and a sadness crossed the man's rheumy eyes. "Zaleski died last year," he shook his head. "Sorry Steve. It's time, you know? It gets us all in the end."

"Yeah," Steve said, staring into his punch glass, as the talk turned to grandchildren and the World Series. "I know."

Gail was a striking silver bird in black plumage, surrounded by women and children who came with tears and hugs. Steve wanted to go over, to try and catch her eye, but found himself rooted to the spot as her earlier words came back to him.

It's been a long time in coming, Steve. I've been prepared oh... for a while.

Gail spoke truth, in the way only women could do. She had children and grandchildren to steady her. Bits of himself that Bucky left behind.

iv

"I don't think you should come around anymore, Steve. At least... not for a while."

Steve's hands were clasped around the mug of coffee that Gail served him. They were in her kitchen, the distance between them greater than the diameter of the table, with its cheery blue checked table cloth and salt and pepper shakers in the shape of cows on its surface.

"Gail, I -"

"We can't be anything more," Gail cut in, her eyes sad. "I've moved on, Steve. We both have."

"I'm only here to help."

"Yourself."

Steve jerked his head up at this, looking at Gail for the first time in minutes. Her eyes were sharp, and her mouth had that stern set to it like it always had when she was mad.

"Gail, sweetheart, that's -"

"You, Steve. It's always been you. The drugs that you allowed them to pump into you-"

"I was doing it for my country, for -"

"You, Steve, for you. You never wanted to be ordinary, and then you went away," Gail's voice wobbled, and for a moment squeezed her eyes tightly shut. When she opened them, they were dry, but unusually glassy. "And you came back, and now that Bucky's gone, you think you can pick up where we left off."

The silence that came after that was deafening, and Steve pushed himself from the table, overturning the chair with such force, it sounded like a gunshot as it toppled to the ground that made both of them jump.

"I'm sorry," Steve's voice was low with remorse, but Gail turned her face away from Steve, her hands at her mouth, her shoulders shaking.

Again, Steve left.

v

"Hello, sad sack, haven't seen you in a while."

Steve lifted his eyes from his hands. He was seated on the gym floor, back against the wall, his hands resting on his knees, and found himself looking up at Tony Stark who was actually dressed appropriately for the gym in gear similar to his; t-shirt, shorts and sneakers and a squash racket in hand.

"I've been busy."

"We've noticed," Tony said, gesturing Steve to scoot over so that he could sit in the space beside him. Steve felt the warmth from Tony's body as their bare knees almost touched. Steve took note of the room they were in; wooden floors, white walls, bright light, and its attendant equipment of weights, treadmills, and other sleek and efficient paraphernalia. There was a full length mirror running along the length of the wall, so that people could practise their forms be it martial arts or basic gymnastics. Steve saw Tony and his reflection in the mirror, and inwardly shuddered at the thought of two Tony Starks in his world. Idly he wondered what brought Tony here, and did not have long to wait.

"You've been grim, even for you, Rogers."

"Drew the short straw, huh ?"

"Actually, got out drank by Thor. Thor. " Tony's voice was tinged with wonder, as if he still couldn't believe it.

"Amazing," Steve laughed, rubbing his face with his hands, not knowing if he should be offended, then grew sober. It's not as if it mattered anyway.

"And the funeral?"

At Steve's shrug, Tony rested his head against the gym's wall, his face in profile. "Carmen Gomez-Carta?"

For all of Steve's limited exposure to music, he had to give the soloist her due. "She was.. her singing was... fine," he said, thinking that his understatement would have made an Englishman lift an eyebrow in mute appreciation. "Bucky would have been proud."

"Good. Nice to know that she impressed in the dress rehearsal," Tony's smile was wry, almost mocking, as his fingers tested and tugged on the strings of his racquet, as if testing for tension. Steve watched the bones as they shifted under the relatively thin skin of the backs of Tony's hands, the handle of the racket resting on Tony's knee cap, the flex of muscle as he shifted his thigh. It never ceased to amaze Steve at how lean and relatively healthy Tony was, for a man who lived the lifestyle he did.

"Yeah, she - dress rehearsal?" Steve shifted his attention from Tony's hands and knee to his face, and saw the answer there.

Tony turned his head to face Steve, and gave a slight nod. "I've heard her in person, her voice is liquid, pure, exquisite. A true artist. La Divina," Tony kissed the tips of his fingers in appreciation. "If she soothed your savage soul, Steve, then I have made the right choice."

For a moment, Steve could only gape at Tony, and found himself torn between insult and empathy, but his bafflement won out.

"You really make it hard for a guy to sympathise, you know?"

"How odd," Tony mused, "I've thought the same about you."

"Me?"

"It can't be easy for you," Tony's voice was conversational, as he shifted his eyes to his racket, and idly stroked its grip. "What with Barnes being gone and -"

"Gail doesn't want me."

At Tony's raised eyebrows Steve tried to backtrack, "That came out wrong. I mean, she..." he gave a helpless gesture, and brought his hands back to the tops of his knees and looked away. Steve could feel the beginnings of a flush on his cheeks and his ears, and he really did not want to suffer Tony's false sympathy. At this thought, he gave Tony his fiercest glare, mutely daring him to say something.

As luck would have it, he was up for the challenge. "You have bad luck with women, Steve," Tony's voice was droll, his eyes bored. "God, I hope it isn't catching."

At this, Steve opened his mouth to give a stinging reply, and found himself laughing helplessly as he lightly banged his head against the gym wall. Tony joined in, and it was strange finding amusement in anything after so long, and after all that happened. Steve caught Tony's eye, the mood shifted. Their heads were close to each other, close enough for Steve to notice how thickly lashed Tony's eyes were, and that he needed a shave.

"It's ghastly, you know," Tony's voice had the timbre of a whisper in a test, "that you have lived too long after your time, and I'll die well before mine. There's a cosmic irony to all of this, and I'm almost too sober to contemplate such nonsense."

Steve chuckled briefly, enjoying the odd sensation of a light moment with Tony Stark.

"It's hard work being sober," he agreed, "I think you might have the right idea at times."

"I can recommend a fine whiskey to set you on the right path," Tony offered in the easy, helpful tones of a connoisseur, " it has a honey mellowed taste with chocolate and orange notes..." his voice trailed into nothingness as their faces were a breath away from each other.

"It's all the same to me, really."

"True," Tony's voice was a ripple on the air between them, as he moved closer. "The only taste you have is in your mouth, and even then..."

The moment was too charged for Steve to offer a snide retort to Tony's insult, there was the shift and heat of Tony's body against his, the scratch of facial hair, and heat as Steve parted his lips and let Tony in, tasting the trace amounts of orange and vodka on his breath. The kiss was tentative at first, a cautious press of lips, the careful swipe of tongue as both men tested each other. Before Steve could even question how they got here, Tony took possession of the kiss, as he nipped Steve's lower lip, and swallowed Steve's startled gasp in his mouth. Restraint snapped, and it was bone melting heat as Steve felt the brand of Tony's fingers along his jaw, and before he could squash the impulse, his hand circled Tony's wrist, a tacit acceptance.

"Sober, huh?" Steve huffed when their faces broke apart. They were still close though, with Tony's hand on his jaw.

"Almost too sober," Tony corrected rolling his eyes in exasperation. "How did you ever win the war?" and Steve only grunted as he pulled Tony to him, tossing the racquet aside.

Only for it to hit the floor with a clatter that reverberated like a bomb in the quiet of the room. Steve and Tony sprang apart from each other, as if scalded.

They sat beside each other, and Steve tried to look everywhere else - gym equipment, floor, shoes - his eyes snagged on the mirror before looking down at his shoes.


Steve opened his mouth once, twice. On the third time when nothing came out, he shut it.

"Well, that was fun," Steve heard Tony say a few minutes later as he moved, taking his heat away. There was the squeak of rubber against wood as Tony got to his feet, and Steve kept his viewpoint fixed on Tony's knees and below. His sneakers were just out of the box new, his socks a stark white against the olive of his skin. There was the skim of fingers along the floor as they circled the racquet's grip, and Steve saw the furrow of Tony's brow as he scanned its face.

Steve did not say a word. If he were a man of this time, he would have either apologised, Hey, about what happened back there, I'm sorry, or tried to explain, Bucky's gone, Gail will be gone, and soon I'll be alone. But because he was who he was, he just sat there, and watched Tony as he adjusted his clothing and made to go.

"Tony."

"Steve."

Although Steve might not have been a man of this time, there were certain things that served a man well through the ages. Like, looking his team-mate in the eye, and offer to make amends. Steve tried not to wince at the blandly pleasant expression on Tony's face as he gently tapped the squash racquet against the toe of his sneaker.

"I still think you have the right idea at times," he said, knowing the apology was weak, but unable to offer anything more. The racquet stilled against Tony's sneaker, and Tony looked at him for a moment, his features unreadable.

"I'll send you a case of that whiskey," he said finally.

Then Tony was gone, and Steve stayed seated where he was for a long time, avoiding his reflection in the mirror.

Fin