Evan stares and stares like his frail form can reveal some unnameable thing he doesn't know he was looking for in the first place. There's something to be said about the strange clarities that could be found in grief, he thinks numbly.
The Helicarrier, 2012
The first time he meets Regulus Black it’s on the Helicarrier—an advanced flying command centre, as Moody is polite enough to inform him. That, Evan can see for himself as they fly above it; the Helicarrier is enormous, mainly flat because of the long runaway made of asphalt and concrete where the Quinjet lands. As he finally puts his feet on solid ground—as much solid as a floating centre of operations can be—Evan takes a look around; soldiers in matching military uniforms are jogging around the landing aisle, a commander barking instructions with his hands clasped behind his back. It suddenly and unexpectedly sends him back to Camp Lehigh: to Mary’s curious gaze, Pandora’s smile, the disbelief in everyone’s faces when he was chosen for Project Rebirth. The memory is accompanied with a bittersweet feeling, a pang to his chest; everyone from that time is dead, and yet, here Evan is, miraculously alive.
Alastor “Mad-Eye” Moody is a paranoid man, much like Evan’s first commanding officer—strange, how his thoughts circle back to the war with every little thing that comes to his attention. Moody is what his surname reveals: a gruff, surly man, with heavy eyebrows that seem to be stuck in a permanent frown, hair grey and grizzled, skin mangled around his face. A huge chunk of his crooked nose is distinctively missing. His good eye is darting around, examining his surroundings with a distrust that cannot be missed or misinterpreted. But perhaps, what’s more surprising is the fake eye that seems to pierce through everyone and everything; it has a vivid, electric-blue colour. His mechanical leg makes a thumping noise as he walks beside Evan, muttering under his breath.
He doesn’t know what to make of Moody; the man twitches at any sudden noise, and a stream of cursing follows that horrifies Evan. His posture is tense as it can be, shoulders drawn back; his wrinkled skin grows more carved every time someone shouts. His body language screams of don’t come near me so Evan takes care not to let their arms accidentally brush, unsure of what the man might do if startled or provoked. He wouldn’t put it past him to draw a gun, although he might have misjudged Moody; reading people correctly had never been a skill of his, and seventy years on the ice can’t have changed that. Seventy years on the ice haven’t changed a lot.
“Rosier,” Moody growls, and Evan stills himself, a habit he hasn’t been able to shake off.
“Sir?” he inquires.
“Pay attention,” Moody instructs and continues from where he’d stopped. “The Helicarrier doubles as an aircraft carrier, designed to be capable of sustained, independently powered flight, via four, massive turbine engines that provide the lift needed to keep it in the air, though it has seaborne capabilities. Now, guess with whose designs we managed to build this technology?”
Evan’s brows furrow. “I don’t know, sir.”
“Think, boy, think. Who’d have been innovative enough to design something like this monster back in the forties, uh? Sounds familiar?”
He shoots Moody a look of disbelief. “Are you talking about Marlene? Marlene McKinnon? She was very creative.”
Moody gives a nod of approval, satisfied. “The one and only,” he confirms, eyes narrowed. “Marlene McKinnon, the senior one. Have you met her daughter?”
“Marlene had a daughter? I didn’t peg her as the type who’d ever settle down.”
“Well, she did. And she was fairly old—her daughter is about your age, a bit older.”
Evan huffs. “You mean older than ninety years old? Somehow, I doubt that.”
A glare shuts him up. “Well, if you haven’t met McKinnon yet, you’ll meet her soon, I’m sure. She knows how to make her presence unforgettable—gonna get herself killed, that woman, if we don’t call Meadowes for damage control.”
He frowns at the name. “Meadowes.”
“McKinnon’s partner.”
“As in, fighting partner?”
“No, as in, lover. Meadowes’ fighting partner is Black—there he is,” Moody says, nodding, and Evan follows his gaze to the figure approaching them with sharp steps as they walk down the ramp.
His first impression is of a dancer—Black is slight and a bit short, pale, can’t be over twenty, bearing himself with confidence written in his straight posture, in his swift and graceful manners. Dark, wild curls frame his face, ending at the base of the back of his neck. He looks calm as he comes to stand in front of them, nods at Moody with familiarity. As Evan and he shake hands, their eyes meet; Black’s eyes are silver grey, something unfathomable written behind them; his grip is firm, skin cold. There is honest interest in his expression, and Evan can’t help but smile. Something tells him it’s a common reaction towards Black.
Black is in casual, modern clothes: black jeans and t-shirt, covered by a dark-green hoodie that is too big for him, and boots. It makes Evan feel self-conscious in his button-down shirt, brown trousers, and dusty, second-hand Oxfords. The first time he went to a store after seventy years, he’d been overwhelmed by the variety of garments, of the vivid colours around, of the lack of—well, normal clothes. Normal for his standards, or the forties’ standards, at least. There were so many options, and too many employees over-eager to tend to him, that in the end he had pleaded a headache and got them to leave him alone to panic in peace. Having a breakdown in the changing rooms wasn’t his proudest moment, and he didn’t need any witnesses to that.
In the end, in a desperate attempt to resemble his normality, Evan had visited a vintage store with second-hand clothes spanning from his time to the nineties’. The eighties’ style had left him slightly awed, to be honest, and the casualty of the now, confused. The owner—an old and kind lady with a smile that had reminded him of his ma—had taken pity on him and helped him pick up clothes. Evan had bought anything similar to his era, clutching at button-downs and denim jeans and Oxfords like his life depended on it. Suits and knit sweaters and belts and handkerchiefs and pullovers and coats. Anything that could make him feel okay again.
The old lady had sensed his discomfort that day, Evan was sure. She had listened to his rumblings and recommended clothes from the forties’ she’d thought he’d like; she had let him pet her cats, offered him a glass of water that he’d politely refused, embarrassed by himself and his erratic behaviour. He had said so, apologised for the inconvenience many times, stumbling over his words, cheeks reddening, had tried for her sake to maintain a facade of calmness. It was inappropriate to lose his composure in such a way, let alone in front of a poor woman that probably wanted to kick him out of her store and never set eyes upon a mess like him again.
She had smiled sadly at that. “My dear,” she’d said, in that soothing tone of hers that reminded him achingly of his own mother, dead years ago, “I don’t think there is anything wrong with being a little overwhelmed with all of this in your case. You’re doing fine, trust me.”
Evan, unconvinced and confused and a little teary-eyed, had searched in her expression for dishonesty, for some kind of lie. Not finding any, he’d accepted her words, with reluctance. When he’d finally left the store, a tea session, a cat purring on his lap, and a couple of hours later, he’d returned to his Brooklyn flat, shut the door behind him, and slid down the floor, shopping bags scattered around him, feeling calmer than he’d felt in weeks since waking up. In the dark, it was almost easy to pretend nothing had changed; he was back and Pandora would come in at any moment, and they would laugh at all the stupid things her boss had said today. They would joke about being poor, complain about whatever they had to eat, then go to sleep.
But now, he regrets putting his comfort above the modern style. Feeling like a fraud, or a relic from some other period, is something that will never change if he doesn’t attempt to fit in this new world. And yet, following the fashion of the now seems like a betrayal of his past and all it represents. His fallen friends, lost to time while he has to live on and on in a place he doesn’t recognise to be his anymore. Clinging to some misguided attempt at preserving all he’s lost is the wrong way to go on living this life, but he can’t exactly help it. It’s easier to just pretend. It’s easier to just sink down and give up.
Black gives him a kind smile, then addresses Moody on something about You’re needed atthebridge and McGonagall will have my head so tell her I informed you in time. Moody shakes his head, almost (dare he say it) in a fond manner, salutes Evan and heads to another direction. Black gestures with his head for Evan to follow him and they walk together to the Helicarrier’s railing.
“So,” Evan says, burying his hands into his pockets, “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.” He glances at Black, at the grin playing on his lips, looks away.
“Agent Black. Regulus Black, since I assume that’s what you’re asking.”
“Well, I’m Evan Rosier,” Evan says.
“Yes, I’m pretty sure the whole base knows.” Regulus squints his eyes, quickens his steps and Evan has to trail behind him, getting a sense of déjà vu. “And that’s Doctor Potter—hey, Doc.”
A dishevelled man, barely older than Regulus, turns around; recognition lights his face and he attempts to come closer, while fighting to avoid stepping in other people’s way. It’s a bit endearing, and Evan watches Regulus’ reaction to the Doctor; there is something here, he is sure. The thought leaves him with an emotion he can’t quite name, but Evan shakes it away as the other man approaches them with a small smile.
“Agent Black, hi,” he says, tipping his head towards Regulus awkwardly; he turns to Evan. “Captain Rosier, hello—I heard you’d be joining us. All of this is very strange, isn’t it?”
“Doctor Potter,” Evan greets him with a hesitant smile of his own, as they shake hands. “It’s not as unfamiliar as I’d have thought, but not as familiar as I would have hoped. I’m told you can find the Cube?”
James Potter inclines his head again. “That the only thing you’ve been told?”
“The only thing that matters to me.”
Regulus, who has been quietly talking to an earpiece, interrupts their interaction with another smile. “Gentlemen, I’m being told it might get a bit hard to breathe, so you probably want to step inside.”
At the same time, the Helicarrier’s machine gives a low rumble; four huge lift fans mounted on the sides start to lift into the air as the ship takes flight. Evan blinks, then laughs in awe; meanwhile, James curses under his breath and spins around to stare at Regulus with disbelief, says, “You can’t be serious.”
Regulus opens his mouth to say something—then frowns, something flickering behind his expression; he resumes a relaxed facade and replies, “We’re taking off, Doc. Better get strapped down or fall to your demise.”
An amused sound escapes James; he shakes his head, barely managing to suppress a smile. “You’re impossible, Regulus.”
And Regulus just grins. “I try.”
There's something to be said about the strange clarities that could be found in grief.
The thing is, he doesn't think it was love. Or, he does, but then again, wasn't he in love with Barty, too? It makes no sense. He doesn't understand.
The Mall, 2014
They’re going down the escalator, just out of the Mac store, Evan standing behind Regulus a little too close for comfort, people everywhere around them, when Regulus turns to him, eyes wide and frantic, says—demands, more like it, in a hurried whisper, “Kiss me.”
Evan does a double take, a thousand emotions flashing through his thoughts—confusion, then panic, because what—only to settle for a hissed “What.” His lips suddenly feel dry, a knot in his stomach, and he swallows heavily. It occurs to him, suddenly, like a revelation of sorts, that Regulus has freckles scattered on the bridge of his nose. Involuntarily, against his will, without meaning to, his eyes look down to Regulus’ lips.
But Regulus doesn’t grant him a satisfying answer; he mutters something about how public displays of affection make people very uncomfortable and really, Evan couldn’t agree more and says so, in a hushed voice, “Yes they do!” before Regulus sets his jaw, quickly pulls Evan’s head down, goes on the tips of his shoes, and kisses him and—oh.
Oh.
Ever since he had woken up, he’s split his life in befores and afters. Before the ice and after the ice. Perhaps it would have been more fitting to put a barrier between the part of his life when he was just Evan Rosier, not Captain America: pre-serum, post-serum. But then again, he didn't really think being a super soldier had changed him as a person; it simply had enhanced his physical abilities. In his core, he was the same person. Or maybe he should have split it before the war and after. But somehow, the ice seemed more important. He couldn't explain it; it just was. He remembered his last kiss from before. It had been sloppy, drunk; a soldier whose face was lost in time in front of him, blurry around the corners. It meant nothing. And then, there is his last kiss from after. In a dark alley, another faceless, nameless man braced on the wall, flushed as they pressed close to each other.
Because of Regulus’ relaxed and calm persona, Evan had always assumed he’d be a gentle kisser—not that it was something he’d spent a lot of thought on. This… it’s not not gentle, but there’s a fierceness to it that catches Evan by surprise, his eyes wide open, before he kisses Regulus back, returning the heat. His mind is blank but for that stupid, surprised oh that keeps replaying in the back of his head.
His first concrete thought is that Regulus’ scent is of mint, and that he tastes of mint, too. His mind unhelpfully supplies him with the question of whether Regulus chews those gums that make your mouth burn; it leaves a nice, fresh sensation. Regulus’ lips are soft against his own, and Evan becomes keenly aware of the fact he’d been biting his own lips the whole day, so that now they are chipped and dry. He places his hands on Regulus’ lithe waist, hesitantly, while Regulus buries his hands on Evan’s hair. As a small noise escapes him before he can stop it, Evan flushes bright red, feels Regulus grin against his lips, and their noses accidentally brush.
His body is pressed on Regulus’ and it’s difficult not to notice his strong and well-shaped muscles, his lean form, the sharpness of his hip bones, or how small his wait is, and how Regulus’ hands run through his hair and tug a little, and it’s, it’s pleasant and nice that he doesn’t want it to end, not really, and Evan knows it’s wrong because Regulus isn’t quite his friend yet, is he? Evan isn’t sure, but right now that doesn’t seem to matter to his mind, and Evan closes his eyes and—
Oh.
Regulus steps away first, looking a bit dizzy, his lips redder, eyes wider, a glowing blush on his cheeks, and Evan blinks, his mind desperately trying to catch up with what happened and the now, and he blinks again, as if shaking off a spell but he quite frankly can’t. The feeling of Regulus’ lips on his own lingers, a pleasant tingle, and he remembers how his hands felt on Regulus’ waist, and how Regulus’ hands played with his hair and—oh. He liked it. He liked kissing Regulus.
His thoughts a pleasant mess, Evan mouths soundless words. Regulus grins at him, turns around, back to his face, and asks, “Still uncomfortable, uh?”
Another blush spreads on his cheeks. “Eh. I… well. Oh.”
Regulus snickers behind him.
Camp Lehigh, 2014
The earth around them rumbles and shakes, the floor vibrates, the whole place explodes, fire and rubble and dirt and mud thrown around them, and Evan frantically pushes Regulus down into a small opening on the ground, curls up, his knees drawn up to his heaving chest, and protects them with his shield, thoughts a muddled mess of oh god oh god oh god and we're gonna die we're gonna die and Regulus I have to protect Regulus—
He grunts when the pressure on the shield becomes too much and he knows he won't be able to handle it for long, it's too much too much—
In the war, after a bombing, a silence would settle over the battlefield, ringing and heavy, an uncomfortable blanket you couldn't shake off, the sheets of a bed that you were tangled into. Your ears would pound, because you didn't need a bomb for your mind to conjure a bomb's sound. It would echo through your ears for hours later, and you'd remember the screams, the crying, the panic and the all-consuming fear that paralysed the best of men, rendered them immobile with terror, when faced with the horror of war and bloodshed and death.
It would take hours to make sure there weren't going to be any other attacks. Until then, you'd crawl into a shelter with your fellow soldiers, hunted down like rats and worms underground, face covered in mud and blood, hair dirty and sticking to your sweaty forehead. No one would utter a word, but silence could speak volumes. There was no louder noise than the one of quiet. It would drive you crazy with paranoia and anticipation and dread, the blood in your veins throbbing as your heart kept miraculously beating. Men went mad during those times; it was often to feel like the last remains of your sanity flit away.
It was what war was, the fundamental truth behind it. There was no point, no winner, no higher ground, no way to justify the despicable actions that happened during it. To find pride in your achievements, to brag about your body count, it was worse than anything. Soldiers never accepted gratitude for fighting in the war; the words 'you're my hero' would be like a taunt to them, a reminder that people didn't get it, not really. You couldn't find a hero in a war, only survivors. Victors, losers—in the grand scheme of things, those terms seemed childish and nonsensical.
His vision blackens.
When he comes to, Evan blinks, coughing immediately, his chest seizing up as he inhales dust. He groans, rubble digging into his limbs, scarring his skin with red gashes and sounds; his ribs are definitely bruised, blood running down his aching forehead. He grits his teeth as he pushes the rubble off him, breathing heavily, eyes stinging from the ash in the air. The smell of fire brings tears to his eyes and he blinks them away, looking around for Regulus.
He's slumped against a wall, head fallen back, his neck stretching over in an uncomfortable way, but clearly unconscious. His breathing is ragged, too, blood on his clothes, skin ashen, hair covered in dust. Regulus would have hated it, he thinks, as he puts a hand around his waist—desperately doesn't think of his hands on Regulus' waist a few hours ago, how did this go so wrong soquickly—and hoists him up, throws a hand around his shoulders, then places his other hand under his knees, carrying him in a bridal way. Regulus doesn't react, his chin falling on his chest, head bobbing with every move Evan makes.
Evan walks through the ruins of his first camp, seeing destruction everywhere, then looks up as the sound of an aircraft reaches his ringing ears, and gets out fast before STRIKE agents start roaming the place.
It's the maybes that hurt. The could havebeens, if it weren't for Barty and James. Like a child, he plays the blame game, appointing responsibilities to everyone. James, mostly, because if it hadn't been for him, maybe there could have been something. Because if Regulus wasn't so enamoured with James, maybe Evan wouldn't have looked for love in another's arms—Barty's.
He doesn't think he didn't love Barty, and yet, losing Regulus leaves an emptiness in his chest that can't be filled or compared to anything remotely close to human pain. His body aches, as if seventy years of ice ice ice have started catching up to him, and Evan finds himself wondering whether he's running out of time, finds himself uncaring of the outcome.
Revelation had flashed in front of his eyes, when he'd made himself look over the edge. Down below to the rocky ground, to the black orchid blooming, surrounded by crimson red colour that can't be washed. It hadn't been an understanding, more of an acknowledgement, a realisation of what this aching thing in his bones was.
His mind keeps going back to that day when Regulus had kissed him. The moment plays on the back of his head again and again, and he wonders what he could have done differently. He thinks a lot of the sobs he'd ignored. Thinks of See you in a minute and the lump in his throat overwhelms him until Evan has difficulty in breathing, until he has to teach himself to count and wait for it to be over. It's partially his fault; they'd lived together in the base, and yet he'd never tried to offer comfort to Regulus. And he'd known how dark Regulus' thoughts could become—no, known wasn't it. He'd guessed. Regulus never said anything. He shouldn't have needed to; if Evan had been less selfish, less caught up in all they'd lost, less inadequate and useless, worthless.
He doesn't know why he agrees to escort Sirius to the grave. In his blame game, Evan puts a lot of responsibility to Sirius' shoulders. It's his fault Regulus is gone, too. It's all their faults; every time McKinnon hissed words of venom, every time James held back, every time Evan pretended he didn't hear sobs from behind locked doors, every time Regulus asked for Sirius' help and Sirius didn't deliver. Small mistakes that lead to a man throwing away his life for a Stone. A fucking Stone.
Evan doesn't blame Meadowes. They'd cared about Regulus more than anyone. They'd been there for him. They'd tried to help. Whether Regulus had accepted that aid was another thing—because he hadn't wanted their assistance. He'd wanted his brother's. Who had refused to offer it until that battle in Wakanda, and then everyone had died, the world tilted off its axis.
His thoughts circle back to Sirius. Burying his hands in his pockets, Evan goes to wait in the car. There are moments that the words don't reach and no matter what he should probably say to Sirius, his lips are sewn together, unable to form a word. But then the thought passes his mind—Regulus would have hatedthis—and he crumbles, putting his head in his hands, because the suggestion of dishonouring Regulus' memory is enough to send him spiralling. It's the reason when Sirius comes over, opens the door, slides on the passenger seat next to him, and says How about a drink with a hoarse voice, he says Yeah, sure, why not, because Regulus wouldn't have wanted his brother to be alone.
And maybe, maybe he wouldn't have wanted Evan to be alone, either.
Sleep lingers all our lifetime about our eyes, as night hovers all day in the boughs of the fir-tree.
Ralph Waldo Emerson