Chapter 2
“There is something beautiful about a blank canvas, the nothingness of the beginning that is so simple and breathtakingly pure. It’s the paint that changes its meaning and the hand that creates the story. Every piece begins the same, but in the end they are all uniquely different.”
― Piper Payne
Steve pulled at a long slip of blue tape, effortlessly unsticking in one easy stroke, leaving behind a very satisfying straight line –where Casa Blanca meets the Adriatic Sea. He snorted at the thought. His mind easily drifted from wondering if Sherman Williams had an Atlantic Ocean paint color, to remembering the quirk in Ms. Carter’s red lips when she had made the humorous remark, referencing one of his favorite movies.
Going to work had become more than just something to keep him occupied during the waking hours now that he was working on Peggy Carter’s loft. Painting her bedroom became an exciting challenge, and he was dedicated to making her love her freshly redone bedroom.
In the last two days, Steve thought a lot about the woman whose room he’d been painting. He wondered about where she worked. He was curious about her accent. Obviously she was British, but had she been in New York long? What brought her over?
Steve prided himself on always putting his all into every job, but he had been particularly careful with her room. And yet, he tried to picture the woman here, not inappropriately, shaking his head at himself at the mere thought of being a creep, but to learn more about her. He found it particularly difficult, given that her room was devoid of personal touches. And he would not, could not, dare to snoop beyond what was readily visible.
The furnishings, while elegant and all matching, told him nothing except that they were obviously not purchased at Ikea. Her desk looked to be made of real mahogany. In contract, the desk he had put together in his own room was probably more plastic than wood. But given that the building belonged to Howard Stark, Steve couldn’t really be surprised.
He found himself wondering about that connection too. He knew Stark from his military contracts. While he had never actually met the man while deployed in the Middle East, Stark had flown in several times to distribute gear and have photo ops with personnel around the base. But he also knew Stark’s other claim to fame, his playboy persona of international proportions.
Maybe she’s seeing him, Steve thought with a frown. Maybe that’s how she scored this incredible apartment.
Maybe it was just wishful thinking to think that she didn’t seem like the kind of woman who would want to be one of Howard Stark’s flings.
Her bureau, while showcasing what looked to be a bottle of perfume and a few other beauty products, was otherwise sparse. Usually, this sort of lack of personal touch meant a lack of a personality. But the severe austerity didn’t match the immediate impression Peggy made. In Peggy’s case, it pointed to a woman who hardly spent any time at home. That made sense given his guess, based on her phone conversation and her smart attire, that she was a lawyer of some kind.
None of this would normally be anything Steve would even think to remark upon. But this woman… He was drawn to her. Captivated. Intrigued. He was merely a moth headed toward the flickering warmth of a flame. He remembered how he found himself mesmerized from the moment he overheard her impassioned argument into her phone, oblivious to him standing there in the elevator with her, not out of indifference but because she had been so narrowly focused.
Steve couldn’t remember the last time he was so utterly affected by a woman. Definitely not in the five plus months he’d been back in the States. In fact, this was the first time since his diagnosis of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, that he had any lasting interest in a stranger. It was unnerving to want a chance at knowing her better. The longing… after so many years without, felt strange, but even more so, he had to admit, it was exciting.
In the monotony of his uneventful life post-military, a crush was a thrill, a welcome one at that. It added color to his usual routine of waking up, going to work, and then trying to sleep.
Once the bedroom was finished, Steve had been graced with catching glimpses of Peggy Carter on her brief appearances in the apartment. Mostly it seemed that she came home to change clothes. He’d seen her enter wearing power suits: sharp blazers and crisp collared blouses, to coming out in elegant cocktail dresses. He was thankful her loft had plenty of rooms with extra high walls to draw out the length of his job.
Steve hadn’t meant to come back to New York and work on a construction crew, but work was hard to come by and he had to contribute to the rent for the crappy apartment he split with his best friend. And to do that he needed to work. Luckily some of his old acquaintances from his childhood street in Brooklyn knew Miller Construction had so much work, paired with a revolving door of workers, that he always needed extra help.
Steve was officially only a painter, well versed in brush techniques and paint colors. He liked to think that his brief stint in art school had given him some edge in making clients and in turn Miller, satisfied. Miller had seemed to take a liking to him, and when Steve had asked for more hours to earn some extra money, made him the official Miscellaneous Man. And so when he wasn’t painting, Steve carried out all sorts of odd tasks or was an extra set of hands where they were needed. This meant he usually spent just as many hours on a site as the rest of the crew, sometimes longer if he was doing clean up. As long as he was earning, and the work kept him occupied, he couldn’t complain.
It had been a hard day of scraping, carrying up supplies and painting in the humid New York summer. The electricians had been in so the air conditioning was turned off for most of the day, only making working conditions even worse. By the time five o’clock rolled around, he was dripping with sweat, exhausted from the heat. And so when he runs into a sweaty Peggy in her athletic gear on his way out for the day, he found himself just as sweat-soaked as she was. Only she still looked stunning. He must have missed her coming home sometime earlier. Suddenly, standing a few feet from her, he’s super conscious of his sweaty shirt and paint streaked jeans.
“Oh hello,” she said, chest heaving as she caught her breath.
“Hi,” he said dumbly.
“It’s incredibly hot out there,” she complained, wiping at her brow. “On your way out?”
“Yes. All done for the day,” Steve agreed.
Peggy nodded. “How about a bottle of water before you go? You’ll need it. I know I do after my run.”
Steve, despite himself, found himself accepting, setting down his bag and following her into the kitchen.
“Wait you ran outside in this weather?”
Peggy huffed, seemingly at herself as she ducked her head into the refrigerator. “I prefer running outside than on a treadmill, but I quickly realized I was being foolish and turned back around and headed toward the gym.”
He nodded, eagerly taking a long drink of the water she handed him.
“Probably a good idea. Best to avoid heat stroke,” he said. To his surprise she laughed at this. He took another long drink of water, his mouth suddenly dry. He cleared his throat. “How’s the new bedroom feel?” Steve had been curious about her reaction for a few days now.
Peggy hummed. “Very serene actually. I may not quite understand naming practice but you did a lovely job. Thank you.”
Steve felt oddly proud. “Of course. It’s my job,” he replied, feeling something strange in his stomach.
Peggy opened her mouth, maybe to continue the conversation, maybe to tell him to leave, only to be interrupted by her phone ringing.
“Work, sorry,” she explained before answering it. “Yes, Rose? You’re kidding me! Well he’s not going to avoid me or his responsibilities so easily. Guess I’ll just have to go to him. Where exactly is the banquet? I can be at the helipad within the hour.”
Steve decided it was best to leave, moving away as she talked. When Peggy looked up he put his palm up in a show of goodbye from the threshold of the kitchen, and quietly thanked her for the water.
Outside, under the lingering oppressive sun, Steve felt a strange sense of hopelessness creep up within him. He’s Steve Rogers. He’s just a painter, with nowhere to go, no one to see and nothing important to do.
Steve made it back to his apartment a few hours later, arms full of groceries, finding the apartment dark and empty.
“Buck?” he called out, checking the time on the microwave. He didn’t hear a response. It wasn’t even eight yet. “Bucky?” he tried again, setting down the bags. Again he was met with silence.
Steve sighed loudly. Bucky must be getting an early start, he thought.
He could guess where Bucky had gone, not an exact location but there’s really only one thing that drew Bucky out of the apartment these days. Finding a bar full of pretty girls.
By the time the groceries were put away and Steve tidied up most of the apartment, there still was no word from Bucky. It wasn’t as though Steve had really expected a call or a text. It had been months since Bucky had forced him to come along. He found absolutely no amusement in it. Not the booze, nor the girls Bucky picked up on his behalf. He didn’t like watching his best friend get stone drunk, nor did he care for the meaningless, tipsy interactions that Bucky had with women who didn’t have his best interests in mind. None of them lasted longer than a single night in Bucky’s schedule anyway.
And Steve knew better than to think Bucky really liked the routine. No, it was a distraction, a half-witted, ineffectual coping mechanism. Because it was easier to stay numb than to feel. Steve understood that. He did. But it didn’t mean he approved of Bucky’s form of therapy. And the time Bucky caused a scene with a drunken tirade directed at Steve was the last straw.
Bucky yelled at Steve for ruining the mood, fucking up his chances with girls, and ended his diatribe with a “would you please grow the fuck up and just get fucking laid because you’re ruining this night for fucking everyone.”
Steve, even though he felt it was his duty to watch out for his best friend, left the bar before throwing punches and never joined him again.
He fell asleep early, grandpa early as Bucky deemed it, the physical labor of working with a construction crew at least allowing him that. Steve had a hard time sleeping since his honorary discharge. Insomnia, they said, was very common. The advice he was given was to get up when he couldn’t sleep, and to go straight back to bed the moment he felt tired. Steve found that advice fairly useless. But he was also sure that it was something more than garden variety insomnia, because he was tired enough to fall asleep, but would still wake several times through the night. Sometimes following a nightmare, but just as often not.
At nearly three a.m., he had been wide awake for more than an hour. Steve had pulled his sketchpad and pencil from the bedside table in an attempt for distraction, but he couldn’t get his hands to work. After staring at the blank wall in front of him, he moved out of his depressing room, and into the living room to the couch, not bothering to try to distract himself with TV. He was lost within his head when he heard a key jiggle in the lock, hearing Bucky swear before he finally managed to open the door.
“Hey! Steve!” Bucky slurred in a joyful slosh.
Steve cringed. He hated the sound of that tone, falsely cheery, not knowing the stranger Bucky became when he was drunk.
“Long night?” he asked drily. “Don’t you have to be at work in the morning?
Bucky smirked. “Relax dad. It’s early. Still got plenty of time until I gotta hit the streets.”
Steve followed him into the kitchen, where Bucky pried the cap off the milk carton Steve had just bought, and took long gulps straight from the carton.
“Can’t sleep?” Bucky asked, as if he didn’t already know Steve’s chaotic sleep cycle. Steve crossed his arms as he watched Bucky wipe his mouth with his sleeve. “What?” Bucky said defensively at Steve’s disapproval.
“Do you even know what time it is?”
“Party time!”
Steve shook his head. “Buck, aren’t you sick of this? You don’t actually think this is helping.”
“What am I supposed to do? Just sit the fuck around here all night?”
There was an edge in Bucky’s voice that Steve didn’t like so much.
“Have you gone to your appointment this week?” he guessed.
Bucky dropped the milk into the refrigerator and then shut it with a loud bang. “Fuck off Steve.”
“Buck, it’s important.”
“Is it Steve-o? Is it so goddamn important? And how’s the quack been for you? You feeling any better over the kind of shit we had to do under the pretense of it being our patriotic duty? Has a one-hour heart-to-heart rid you of your nightmares and guilt? Is that why you can’t sleep?”
Steve’s eyes narrowed in fury. “Oh yeah and I suppose getting plastered every single night of the week is the way to becoming reborn, huh Buck? Puking your guts out night after night, a revolving door of blank-faced girls. That’s the way to pretend you’re the old Bucky Barnes, the one who wasn’t a soldier and who didn’t lose an arm in combat.”
Bucky scoffed. “At least I’m enjoying myself.”
“And you only have to be half out of your mind to do so.”
“I’m already half-out on my mind!” Bucky yelled. “Every single moment of my life Steve.”
“You need to stick to your appointments, Buck,” Steve said in a gentler voice.
“God, you’re such a Grade-A, All-American, Apple-Pie-Sunshine pain in the ass sometimes. You know why they stuck us with that barely VA-approved garbage program? Not to help us. They don’t give a damn about us. They want us to hurry up and join the rest of society so that people don’t have to feel sorry for us when they see us on the streets. So that we’re not hanging under their noses reminding them of the unpleasant truth that there are thousands more like us, doing the shit they’d rather not be reminded of on a daily basis.”
“Buck—”
“You honestly think that they give a shit? Thank you for your service, now you’re on your fuckin’ own because we don’t give a fuck. Sit down, shut your goddamn mouth and get back to being another useful citizen. That’s what we are to our country Steve. And you know it too.”
“You’re drunk. You’re not thinking clearly.”
“No? Anyone help you get work when we got back? A recruiting job maybe? Training little runts like you used to be? An office job in D.C.? Didn’t think so. You were a Captain. You got medals,” Bucky said. “And what about Ed down by the docks? Or Lewis who squats in the park? They gave their service didn’t they? And now they got nothin’.”
Steve’s jaw clenched and before he knew it, he couldn’t hold his rage in anymore. “And what are you doing to help them? What are you doing to help yourself by acting so goddamn sorry for yourself? I keep waiting for the night you don’t make it home. You know that? And we’re not in an active combat zone!” Steve raged. “I go to work, do all the chores because I know you need me, and you’re my best friend. But you’re doing nothing to help yourself. Nothing. And you’ve still got options, you still got resources. And you’d rather piss them away.”
Steve stormed out of the kitchen, angry and too stubborn to go apologize or help Bucky to his room. He fumed in bed, gritting his teeth as he counted cracks in the ceiling paint, head so full of noise that he’s not sure when Bucky made it to his room, if he did at all.
His alarm goes off at six-thirty. He headed into the kitchen to make coffee, surprised to find Bucky dressed and already making a pot. He lifted it in question to Steve, who nodded back.
“Thanks,” Steve said.
Bucky nodded. “Listen, Steve,” he started, his eyes clearer than Steve had seen in a while, “about last night… I’m sorry. I was drunk out of my mind. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.” He sighed, and looked away. “You know I didn’t mean anything by it right? You’re my best friend.”
Steve nodded. He knew. And he did understand just exactly the situation Bucky was in, better than most. Not everything Bucky said was false, but he didn’t want to fill his life, or the world, with any more cynicism. He could choose how to lead his life forward. He could choose to believe in the best of people. He could choose to believe he would get better.
On his way to work, he stopped for fresh bagels and a hot cup of coffee. He went to the park for a quick chat with Lewis. He hadn’t been this way in a while, but quickly learned that the always cheery Lewis said he’d been having an easier time now that it was summer. It beat finding sleeping spots in the winter. Steve gave him the coffee and bagels and promised to ask around for any small jobs for him. He headed to work with a heavy head, inhaling and exhaling in calculated breaths. He might not have been at his strongest, but even small gestures, small human connections helped. And the longer he walked the more Steve was reminded of his worth. Of the good that was worth doing.
It bugged him all the way until the elevator of Peggy Carter’s building, wondering why that thought had seemed so familiar, so potent.
I know my value, she had said.
That held promise. That held hope.