fossilised | it's a new plot!

Though Tony had no doubt about Steve’s massive meltdown, he’d been a kid, just fourteen, when his bodyguard (whom he had ironically called his ‘nanny’) was pulled from his detail. That was just about the time that Jarvis had died and his mother told him that he was too old to have friends that were actually part of his staff and on his father’s payroll.

Fourteen was one of those years of his life that had a milky, burnt sienna wash to it. Tony remembered misery and he remembered loneliness and he remembered the tantrum and the fugue state that would eventually result in DUM-E’s first prototype. Everything else was muddled watercolors and lack of photographic evidence that he’d had a childhood before that at all save the odd movies his father made for investors and boarding school yearbook montages.

Contemplating the man now, the one whose true name he was never told, Tony reached for his glass and breathed in the smell of alcohol. He wanted it in the worst way, not to dull the constant chatter of thoughts in his head, but so he could forget whatever clarity he was experiencing from his youth.

“Four?” Tony drained the glass until only ice remained. He sat it firmly back down on the desk as he stood, pulling down his vest smartly. “You know what? I’m feeling generous. Come downstairs with me.” He was graceful, maybe a little unsteady, but one hand in his pocket and the other on the railing kept Tony from breaking all of the bones in his body. He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled them up, sitting on a rolling stool. The lab was much brighter than his office, blue and white illuminating the chrome and the glass. He watched his Nanny descend after him, as if picking out where to place each foot based on where Tony himself had stepped moments before. He was fluid. Catlike. Just as Tony remembered.

The Soldier had never had friends, never had attachments.

He had been assigned to guard Howard Stark's son because the elder Stark was an asset to HYDRA, that was all. But somehow Tony had grown fond of his Russian speaking and mostly silent shadow, perhaps because he never toadied up to him and never talked down to him. If he said anything, it was deliberate and true, and he watched out for Tony's safety for a number of years. If he had been aware of his assignment's feelings for him, the Soldier hadn't mentioned them or hadn't noticed. As long as he did his job, followed his orders, that was all that ever mattered in his world.

But now he wasn't the Soldier any more, and so much of his memory had been wiped clean in the years since he last stood in Tony Stark's presence, and so nothing remained but a vague sense of familiarity. It made him cautious and he took careful steps into the lab, but no further than the doorway.

"You will not report this to Captain America."

"As much as I loath doing what I'm told, you're in luck," Tony said, wishing he had taken up smoking so he had something to do with his hands when there wasn't a drink against his palm. It was not the first time he'd thought of that and not the first time he let it linger, like he had just inhaled some tobacco flavored with vanilla or clove and was letting it burn his lungs. He always thought the actual act was disgusting though, the smell got on everything and he usually had a healthy respect for his ability to breathe.

He and liver had been on the outs for awhile now, though, and he could always get a new one. Or make a new one. He missed having something artificial in his body. The scar where the reactor used to be left a gaping hole inside of him. And that was not just figurative, as much as he adored the pun.

"The Captain and I aren't really on speaking terms right now and I really hate sharing." He still did not connect that this ageless man who had been so important to him for eleven years of his young life was the same man that had taken out the UN Summit and killed the king of Wakanda. He still did not know that his old nanny was Steve Rogers' best friend.

The connection wasn't there.

"You want to tell me how you aren't dead? Or like sixty? Pull up a chair, let me look at the arm. C'mon, I can work and you can talk. Those aren't mutually exclusive activities."

Whoever he was now, not Soldier and definitely not the Bucky that had those blue eyes pleading with him on the helicarriers, he had no choice but to trust that Stark would keep to his word. If others arrived to try and capture him, he had weapons about his body and he could probably make good his escape.

It didn't mean that he wasn't cautious as he came to sit down and peeled off the hoodie. The arm was buckled in at the shoulder, the plates of metal digging far enough down into the flesh to see white bone around the welling red as it burbled out of him in a continuous stream that didn't seem to bother the man himself at all.

"I don't understand the question."

Why would he be dead? Or sixty? Surely he would be much older than sixty if he was referring to the man that shared his face in the Smithsonian?

Having more or less handled his own upgrades for years now, there wasn't much that made Tony squeamish. He winced, but it was less the wince of a man who empathized with pain and more like something he had been taught to do long ago so people thought he was an eccentric jerk, but not a sociopath who had trouble understanding the emotions of others. Jarvis had been the one to teach him that, to blend in. 'Genius,' his old friend had once said when Tony had gotten himself a bloody nose because he'd made fun of an older boy's entry into the science fair, 'means that you need to work just a bit harder at being a person. Do you think you can do that for me, Anthony?'

Tony had been able to do that, especially after his Nanny paid the kid a visit and broke all of his fingers the next afternoon.

A few presses of buttons, a few displays lit up, and Tony reached into a drawer to put on some gloves. He didn't mind the smear of machinery, synthetic, coal black, but he wasn't getting involved in whatever was coming from this other man's arm. It looked like three quarters blood and one part oil. It smelled like copper and like fire and he'd not had enough to drink to get any of that under his nails.

"You have no idea who I am, but you still knew that I would have the schematics for this arm in my database and could fix it," Tony said coolly, and indeed the design of the arm's last iteration from the 70s, at least two versions behind this current model, floated slowly in the air for his inspection. He glanced at it briefly, learned everything he needed to know in half that time, and waved the image away again. "I'd be mad, but this isn't typical. I'm not the kind of person people forget."

So Tony Stark was one of his former technicians, that must be why he had a vague recollection of him being familiar, right? It explained why he had instinctively known that Stark would be able to help with his arm, and why he had come here instead of try and fix it himself because of the risk of Captain America finding him. Interesting, though, that one of the Avengers was HYDRA.

His good arm snapped around and strong fingers closed around Stark's throat like a vice, expert. Not enough to kill him or cause any serious damage, just enough to hurt and hold him there helplessly, enough to let him know that he could crush his windpipe any second if he decided to do that.

"I'm not going back. You will perform the maintenance and I will leave, nothing more."

He wasn't the Soldier any more. He might not know who he was, but he wasn't that.

By this point in his life, Tony had learned his lesson on letting his guard down. He was no longer easily taken off guard. He was no longer helpless when he ran his mouth and gave out his address. Every contingency was more or less accounted for these days and so the moment that the man grabbed him, the moment his pulse raced against his fingertips, FRIDAY shut down access to the lab and turned on the emergency lighting. "Boss, you have three seconds to enter your code," she informed him, and Tony, gripping Bucky's hand, choked it out.

He fondly remembered his Nanny doing this to his peers (as if he truly had any), and there were flashes of scarlet red shreds of memory of this man with a gun shooting through his palm. Unsettled by both thought and action, Tony joined his other hand around Bucky's wrist.

"Go back where? You came to me," the inventor choked.

After twenty-seven years, the man had come back to him. Where he'd been floating around in a fountain of youth, Tony had no idea.

"You can let go now?"

"HYDRA."

He was fairly sure that Stark wasn't that stupid, but he would spell it out if he had to. Nor was he letting go, not until he got confirmation that, no matter where his allegiance might fall, that he wasn't going to take the Soldier back in.

"You are a HYDRA technician, that's why you have the schematics."

Had Tony known about his father's loyalties to that group, or had he believed that the bodyguard was just someone hired by either him or SHIELD to keep his son safe. To present a good appearance to the world, even while he worked behind the scenes in some of the most disgusting areas possible.

"I'm not going back."

The word was laughable. HYDRA had a special place in their hearts where his death warrant was signed and made good on and Tony was not under the impression that he had a lot of good friends left that were not already ousted as HYDRA operatives. He gave the blank faced man a truly incredulous look. “I am not HYDRA.” There weren’t many things he cared to deny, no matter how much legal pleaded with him, but that was one thing.

He was not some subversive Nazi. He was a functioning alcoholic, a top level genius, and more than a little self-serving, but he also was also a philanthropist, a lover, and when his guilt really got to him, he was even a decent human being. Sometimes.

“I have a schematic of your arm because you were my bodyguard for eleven years. Dad used to tinker on you and-- Oh come on.” Tony would have pressed his fingertips against his eyes if, you know, he wasn’t being threatened to have the life squeezed from his throat. Tiny voices filled in the blanks of the story that his mind had already connected a whole lot of the dots to and the switchboard agent inside of his head was giggling madly at the truth.

Of course Howard Stark was HYDRA.

That was just the sort of life he was doomed to have.

He found it hard to believe that Stark wasn't HYDRA. His old man had been HYDRA, one of the core founders of making sure that it grew inside SHIELD, one of the visionaries that helped create the Soldier. Surely he would have groomed his son to grow up and take over the business; then again, HYDRA were good at lying. Stark had probably perfected the shocked and disgusted act for the other Avengers.

He would just have to be on his guard.

Those fingers finally flexed and his arm dropped back to his side, but his gaze never left Stark's face. A bodyguard for eleven years? He didn't remember that, but that was hardly surprising.

"I have undergone wipe procedures several times in recent years, I do not recall serving as a bodyguard."

Now that was just sad. Tony might have been angry or annoyed or horrified but in all actuality, it was just par for the course. He found himself becoming less and less attached to people as he grew older, as everyone he thought he could really care about left him. One or two people managed to squeak by from time to time, slipping into his armor like they belonged there, like he had loved them countless times before in countless ways, but for the most part, his personality really did help to shield him from the pain of personal connection. The one-two loss of his Nanny and of Jarvis had done a number on his childhood and the way he viewed relationships from then on.

His stomach soured just a little, bit that might have been the scotch trying to ride high in his throat again, ignorant of how drinking was typically supposed to work.

Tony massages a little bit of extra pain into the bruises of his throat and pushed back on the wheeled stool to put some distance between himself and the man. The lights lifted, shifting from the sweltering red of danger back to the bright whites that provided the best opportunity to view his work. His lips pursed.

“Faulty memory and anti-aging? You’ve got the makings of a B-movie character,” Tony said, somewhat guardedly before he grabbed some tissues from his work station and tossed them at the bleeding man. “So now that we’re completely distrustful of each other and this situation, how about we come to some sort of truce until you’re no longer in danger of bleeding all over my floor. No more choking. And how about no more talking either, all right?”

As Tony got to work, something he did with remarkable ease, his mind tumbled over absolutes. The alcohol was wearing off and the whispers of things that did not happen and would never happen kept threatening to overtake him as he wrenched playing back into shape, almost like he’d done it before.

No more talking was an order that he was comfortable following. Even when he had served as Stark's bodyguard, and what little language he did use was Russian, he had been mostly a silent companion. But a constant one, one always on Tony's side, always with him and never hating him for his genius or his need to cling.

Even when-- even when--

"You had a fever," the words came out quietly and stilted. "I looked after you."

It was a strange, half there sort of memory. The boy, ten at the time, had managed to catch a chill that had turned into pneumonia. The doctor had given antibiotics, pneumonia wasn't dangerous these days with the advances in medicine, and he had been put to bed alone. Something in the Soldier's memory had buzzed, though, countless hours of warming and caring for a different skinny body wracked with coughing had come to the forefront and it had morphed into his orders to protect Tony. He had nursed him, broth and cool washcloths, and fresh sheets for five days. That was when the boy had started to cling to him more, see him as more friend than guard.

"You didn't know Howard was HYDRA?"

Really and truly?

Tony hadn’t been a sick kid. Sometimes he did stupid things that opened him up to malady, mostly in the form of broken bones brought on by lack of desire to safely manufacture his inventions in lame attempts to garner attention from a man who never seemed to like him, but like every child, Tony did find himself sick from time to time. Genuinely. Not just faking it to get out of a math class that was far beneath his genius or a stint in detention that he absolutely deserved a hundred times over. And while he had not had many illnesses, he was old enough then to remember that pneumonia, caught from being stuck in a tree for three hours while his Nanny was off doing something for his dad and Jarvis was at home with his own wife, an off day for the semi-butler.

The sickness had kept him in bed and delirious for days, had let the voices creep in and play around with his memories, and left him feeling miserable on top of achy and feverish. A flash of golden-amber eyes might have looked familiar then, part of the recall of Bucky’s long repressed memories, but Tony was quick to cover them up once more with lashes as he looked immediately away from the dimple chinned man he’d last seen the day before he turned fifteen.

“So you do remember.” He needed to look through his belongings. There were almost no photographs of him as a child, and only a few videos from the archive. In the seventies, no one walked around with a means to record every second of every day, after all. It bothered him, for the first time ever. It bothered him because his nanny had been cut out, fittingly, and he’d hated even the thought of him for years.

Tony wiped his hands on a rag. Red and black mixed maliciously and he threw it aside where DUM-E could clean it up later. Or burn down the lab. He seemed to get those two tasks mixed up and Tony never had the heart to fix his whipping boy.

“The only thing I know about my dad is that he was a douche bag. So hey, maybe deep down I always knew. But HYDRA stopped being a thing after the war. It’s only just come back into style. Like the 80s. Your thumb should work now.”

The Soldier had been taken because those were his orders, and by the time he had been sent to kill Howard and Maria, thanks to the inventor trying to double cross HYDRA by stealing the bastardised serum that they had been working on, he had already been wiped again. He had never even thought of the boy who had wondered about his bodyguard, dismissed so suddenly and never returning.

"You don't know who I am?"

He wasn't sure whether he meant the Soldier or James Buchanan Barnes, only that he meant something. That it must mean something if the boy he had cared for hadn't been in on it all, if he had somehow remained ignorant even while his bodyguard spoke in such stilted and dehumanising ways.

As far as Tony was concerned, everyone and their mother spoke the way his nanny had, or should have at least. He’d been too wrapped up in himself to see anyone outside of himself and thought Jarvis had tried hard, very hard, to reach Tony in his youth and teach him about how to recognize that every human being had the right to be treated as such, this man was mostly out of his life by then. It was why Tony had cared so much for him. He never judged. He protected Tony without lecturing him. He was there for the nightmares, let the kid hold onto him when he needed to, and never mentioned it again, not to anyone, no matter what.

His Nanny was more like the St. Bernard that the Darling children kept and was treated as his namesake was.

“I know who you are,” Tony said, switching tools and removing his gloves once he had wiped down the metal with rubbing alcohol. He needed to do some more precision work and he slipped some magnifying headgear over his forehead and right eye. “You worked for me for awhile and then you disappeared.” He didn’t like to repeat himself but this was a special circumstance. “You only remember a case of pneumonia. You know I’m on TV like... all the time? I’m an Avenger? Ever heard of us? Oh. Guess so. Since you don’t want me tattling to Captain Starspangled Boxer Briefs. Why is—“

The tool slipped on the ridges if the arm. No harm done, but Tony was silent for a long time as his thoughts caught up with him. He never knew if his insights were all his own or if they were the others that he used to talk to Bucky about when he was a kid before his mother found out and sobbing my out him into therapy where he learned never to mention it again.

He liked to think that this was all him, but as with his uncanny knowledge of how to fix this piece of equipment he had never seen in his life, he didn’t think so.

“Barnes. Winter Soldier. Shit. Do you remember blowing up a building, by chance, or is it just sickness based memories?”

A shudder went through the man in the chair as he was called Barnes and his muscles tensed up, even the damaged plates of his metal arm clicking and sliding into a more attack ready state.

"I've blown up a lot of buildings, but I didn't touch the one at the UN."

It was unfortunate for Tony that he was still so blank and so emotionless that he didn't even consider how dreadful this must be for Tony. To suddenly be confronted by the truth that his old bodyguard hadn't had a choice, that he'd been a slave to HYDRA and brainwashed into obeying no matter what, that his father had been an instrumental part of stripping down someone into less than a person.

"Don't call me either of those things. I'm not the Soldier any more, I don't do that, and I went to the museum-- that man in the pictures with my face, that's not me. I don't remember him."

It's why he needed to stay away from Captain America, the man did ridiculous things to him and made him malfunction in ways that he couldn't figure out how to stop. He looked at him with love and desperation and called him Buck as if he could actually be human.

Hate filled Tony, an analogue to the emotion that Bucky must be feeling now. He was impossible to read, this situation was nothing like s board room drama and the personalities he was dealing with here were nonexistent. He set the tool aside with trembling fingers, he stood, and he walked across the room to grab the bottle he knew was poorly hidden behind just-for-show flasks. He didn’t bother with a glass this time, drawing his comfort directly from the mouth of the only constant in his life.

After that, the edge gone, his feelings dulled, he turned but did not immediately slip back into Barnes’ company. The bottle was still in his hand but he had twisted the pressed metal cap back on, a flimsy defense.

Should he blame himself for not knowing st five years old that his Nanny had even less autonomy than the Darling children’s pet? What about ten year old Tony, who asked questions about why the man never slept and if he didn’t have the muscles in his jaw to smile. What about when he was fourteen, finally self-aware, in the throes of puberty, constantly masturbating, and becoming a little too much like a singular version of the Hardy Boys attempting to get his Nanny to open up a little to him.

But there was nothing to open up to him about because his father was a monster and wiped his memories and forced him to protect and follow around a lonely child who had no mind to notice that his Nanny wasn’t just super cool and stoic and took his job seriously.

“How about you tell me the things you do remember? Got this feeling that the list is short.”

Even though his thumb now moved, he knew that the repairs were not complete. He could still feel pain in his shoulder that would restrict his level of movement and keep him from being effective in a fight. So he remained where he was in the chair, the only part of him that moved was his eyes as he tracked Stark across the lab and watched him drink with an air of desperation.

"Is it relevant?"

That wasn't exactly a refusal, but he didn't understand why it would matter. His memories were disjointed and confused, precious pieces of himself that he was loathe to give away to other people.

"You can repair the malfunction without needing my memories, and then I can leave."

If words could sober a man right up, Bucky had found them, plucked them out of the nether, glued nails on them and threw them so hard they might as well act like bullets. Tony knew the thought was hyperbole. He knew he was being dramatic. He’d been without Bucky longer than he had been with him, but he couldn’t shake off the sting of his self imposed lonesomeness once more being reinforced.

“How about you humor me?” His Nanny hadn’t ever spoken to him this way. Tony would chat incessantly and Bucky would just follow orders when they were given or stare over his head to keep an eye on the situation as Tony used him for holding spare parts or carrying heavy objects away from the school or the house. Bucky has a voice now, though, one that wasn’t a growl or an occasional seeking of clarification in Russian.

He set the bottle down with reluctance, ignored the desire to call up Pepper at her mother’s and tell her his dad had been HYDRA because he needed to tell someone, and pushed the stool that had traveled away from Bucky back to the workbench.

“Because right now, the only thing you’re doing is demanding work from me and paying me in backhands. Gotta tell you that there’s a time and a place for that and it’s not here.” That Tony was a masochist would surprise no one.

Payment. He hadn't even considered payment, he had gone so long without that being an issue for him at all. He was provided with everything he needed, both to survive and to keep functioning at peak condition, and that was simply the way it should be. Since he had fled after the battle of the Potomac, he had ended up stealing or ghosting through places in order to get what he needed.

Now Stark wanted payment? Did this include not telling Captain America that he had harboured the man he was tearing the world apart to find? Or would that information be forfeit as soon as he left?

"I remember committing sixty seven separate counts of murder, arson, and assault. Do you want the details on those for payment?"

“This isn’t a Bad Things We’re Done measuring contest. And if it was, I’d win,” Tony said, though he wasn’t boasting. Sometimes he couldn’t look in the mirror at himself. The Accords were supposed to stop people like him from screwing everything up all the time. He needed checks and balances. Tony traipsed through life being a carefree asshole and as such, countless people’s lives were changed…and never for the good. He’d killed a lot of people with his armament contracts, not directly, but his name was stamped on every weapon used for hate. Innocent people were collateral damage…look at the sheer mess the country was in thanks to one, several-hour fight with aliens. The black markets were flooded with Chitauri lefthovers. No one even attempted to deny that anymore.

People lived because of them. But people also died because of them. And it was the death toll that he’d racked up that kept him awake at night. Dreaming focused only on the wormhole, only on the faceless masses he’d help usher to their deaths. He wasn’t even being dramatic about that. It was all true. The news, people he thought loved him, and the every day folks he saw scurrying to Starbucks thought so.

“You know what? Never mind.” He tugged down the lens over his eye and went to work again. He was sure that he was the only one who felt the tension and it rose into his throat like bile. It took forty-three seconds before he dropped his tool again and flipped his glass up to look up at Bucky’s face. “How can you not remember anything about me? FRIDAY, I need you to find any archived photos or movies…anything of me, from when I was a kid.”

“Parameters, Boss?”

“Let’s do three to fifteen.”

Tony turned on his stool as FRIDAY queued up a an unsurprisingly low amount of footage. Most of the pictures were of Tony and his mother but, as he flicked through the images that hovered over his desk, there was Bucky in profile, carrying Tony, about six or so, piggyback style behind a group of men in uniform walking with his father. He couldn’t help the feeling of dread that washed over him and he grabbed the tool as if for protection.

“FRIDAY, when was this?”

The AI paused. “I can’t find any information about it, Boss.”

The man without a name, he really should choose one for himself just to get used to thinking of himself with an identity that was human, watched Stark and his obvious unease with confusion. Why should it matter so much that he had forgotten yet another person, when he had forgotten so many? It hadn't been a choice, all of those memories had been ripped out of his head time and again in order to create a blank slate for missions.

Was he personally offended? Hurt? As if he somehow should have resisted the effects of the wipe when nobody else had, not even his supposed best friend. It was extremely confusing and led to him frowning over at the adult Stark working on him, rather than the photographs flickering in front of them.

"I don't understand."

His words were soft and genuinely lost.

"Why do you want to be remembered? Why does it matter when I carried you or why? That was the mission, that mission is complete, I have been wiped since then."

"Yeah, cool, stop saying that. It's gross," Tony said, a very, very weak stretch of his ability for annoyingly effective quips. His mind was unfocused, and as much as he would like to blame that on the alcohol, it usually had a different, calming sort of way with him. Scotch, his best friend, had failed him, no matter how much he offered it worship and constant companionship. Rhodey would not approve, but he wasn't around enough to decide if his approval was something he really wanted to start earning or to put off again for next quarter's conscience earned value meeting.

He moved his hands apart to blow up the image and poked the men in suits. There had never been in a time in all of Tony's sometimes faulty memory where his father had anything to do with him. So why was the Winter Soldier carrying him along like that, towards a distant helicopter?

Tony recognized the lawn, recognized the carriage house in the distance and the back of a fence where his mother's gardeners grew her roses. This was the house in Long Island. The one he said he grew up in but had very few memories of until he left school and started crashing on the living room couch of.

There were other questions now, like who would take a photo of this anyway, and who were these men? Why would his dad want him along for any of his shady dealings?

A white flash behind his eyes left him momentarily out of breath. He knew at once what it was, the first caresses of a panic attack, and so Tony waved his hand over the image until it faded into light and distant memories.

"Everyone wants to be remembered. Even you. Maybe. Probably. Jesus, this is a mess. But whatever. Same shit, different day. I can't fix the nerve connection, but I have something that can. Fair warning, I made a murderbot baby with a deadbeat co-parent who never pays childsupport with it so... Mileage may vary."

"I don't want to be remembered."

He would like to remember, he would like to remember everything that he had ever done or said, he would like to know who he was as a person and move on with his damn life. He would like to know if he could ever be an actual person again, or if he had been hollowed out so completely that there was nothing left.

"When people remember me, they remember a lie and they expect me to be that lie. You're doing it now. You're hurt that I'm not the same silent Soldier you remember, and it bothers you that I don't remember whatever relationship you had with something that was just a hollow machine following orders. Ste-- Captain America does it, he calls me Bucky and looks at me like I'm all of his hopes at once. You all remember me as something that I'm not."

It was the longest speech that he had made in about seventy years and his voice was raspy by the time he was done, but it had come with surprising passion. He didn't want people that told him that he was a bodyguard or a best friend, he wanted space and someone who would let him figure out who the hell he was supposed to be now. Someone who might get to know that person and not expect someone else.

"Forget it, I can live with the damage."

All of a sudden he was on his feet and heading back for the door of the lab.

It took a long moment between sitting back down and watching Bucky stalk towards the glass doors that would take him up the stairs and back towards the elevator our of the building for Tony to open his mouth. "You were just there." His Nanny had never been much of anything. He wasn't a conversationalist. He wasn't a companion in the true meaning of the word. He wasn't the first mate to Tony's pirate captain or a joint explorer on a mission to Mars.

Bucky had been a blank doll, a projector screen, and nothing else. Well, no that wasn't always true, was it?

"Mostly, you were as good as furniture." He let the tool go and spun it around on his desk. It was a complicated game of spin the bottle, without anyone around him to land on for a kiss. When it stopped spinning, it landed on empty air and Tony thought that was fitting. "But sometimes you were more than that. You had... I don't know. Moments. Like when you trashed all of my Captain America stuff. Understandable, now, he's an asshole. Or when you snatched me out of bed and carried me to Brooklyn in my pajamas-- Makes sense now, I guess. You had clarity and dad decided to wipe you. So thanks for the attempt to save me a few times. RIP Captain America action figures. Good luck with....whatever."

He stood to fetch the bottle, neatly twisting open the cap with just the edge of his thumb, and wondering what silence about this would do to those insistent, buzzing voices in his head, the ones that reminded him that there was as many moments in his life that he didn't remember as the ones he did.

Edited 2017-10-25 14:20 (UTC)

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