Steve's Diary

February 29, 2012

Dear Diary,

Back at my old place, at long last.

You see, originally, Director Fury wouldn't let me leave or go anywhere without someone watching me (usually this guy Agent Phil Coulson, for whatever reason)... though, they're finally setting me free.

Last week they told me that they tracked down my old place in Brooklyn a long time ago, we were all shocked that it hadn't been sold or anything. And, apparently, after I went down, they were checking up on everything and, since the place had been paid off already, the only things left to worry about were water and electricity bills.

Basically, I have my mother to thank for having paid for all of literally everything before she passed away.

—————

I'm bored.

I've been home all day and it didn't take long for me to get done everything that needed to be.

For example, there was a package being held for me downstairs that needed to be brought up as soon as possible. The man at the desk seemed annoyed by the box and filled with joy when he saw I was there for it. Apparently it had been in the way for a very long time. I quickly realized the reason for that, which probably had everything to do with the delivery date on the package: November 2, 1945. The person to whom it was to be delivered was Mr. James Buchanan Barnes.

I ran like the devil up those stairs and unlocked our apartment to open that box, even though I was distracted when I first walked in by all of our old stuff. It all felt so weird because, to me, it only felt like it'd been about a year since I'd been home... though, in reality, it had been nearly 70 times that.

I placed the box on the dining room table and locked the door behind me, then proceeding to pick up every single letter and newspaper from the floor that had been left there over the years. After all, how else was I gonna find out who the presidents had been and what the Hell actually happened with The Second World War.

Oh, by the way, we won...

I looked around and nothing had changed, though, it's not like there was anyone living here who would've moved anything. God, there was dust everywhere, but it smelled the same. Ugh, it's so close to being perfect, Bucky's the only thing missing.

I open the big brown box with a knife from the kitchen and looked inside, itching to know what it could possibly be. I'm hit with a burst of scent... it's him- I close it so that his scent might stay inside. Ugh, it was all of his clothes and all of our stuff from the hotel back in London all those years ago.

If both Bucky and I were presumed dead, why would they send all our stuff here?

I walked into our old room and placed the box on the floor of his closet, thinking that maybe I'd look through it all tomorrow after I get some rest because, if I look at it or even smell it again, I might start balling my eyes out. I went into the nightstand to get the matches and candles out because the electricity and water had been turned off after the bills never having been paid (and I'm sure that's what all the mail was about, too).

After, I walked to the kitchen cabinet, the one above the sink, and took out some of our good alcohol, as the beer expired around 58 years ago, oops. I didn't bother getting a glass for the already opened whiskey, rather, I drank it straight from the bottle.

It tasted like him, somehow. It was like maybe I'd kissed him after he'd had some of his own... maybe that truly was a distant memory or perhaps I was making it all up. I really hope it's not the latter.

I looked at the clock on the gas stove and it was 2:56am- I ought to get some rest eventually. I put the bottle back where I found it and walked to our room, stripping off all my clothes and leaving them on top of the dresser. I couldn't bear to look through all the clothes in here, so I slept in just my underwear. Now that I think about it, though, none of the clothes in here would fit me, anyway, as they would've been for the old, smaller me.

The old me that, for whatever reason, I damn wish I would have appreciated more.

I looked over at the nightstand as I turned over. Well, I'll be, if it isn't that damned photograph of Bucky that I- well, shit. The last time I was looking at this picture, it had to have been 1944 and I definitely jerked off to it- Hell, that was the first time I realized that it could hit the ceiling.

I admired everything about that image... even the fact that it was black and white and faded. That, of all things, seemed to remind me of the here and now, in a sense. I look around and everything's just like it, even my own reflection in the mirror by the entrance. I barely knew who was looking back at me. I suppose the world truly does go black and white when your soulmate dies.

I looked back at the picture.

He was so perfect... God, and the things we used to- just thinking about all that now... and the whiskey in my previously lightweight system... I moved my hand lower and- fuck me, I'm already there. I closed my eyes and just let it happen. I let my hand start off slow and pick up pace and, ugh, it felt good to finally get my mind off of things... I don't know why I hadn't thought of this sooner.

I peeled my underwear down and took them off, tossing them to the floor, and continued on with what I had been doing. Damn, I was going quick, too... fuck, it was almost like I couldn't stop if I wanted to.

It felt like it hadn't even been a minute yet and I finished all over myself.

"Christ," I whispered, looking down at what was happening and what was all over me.

I bit my lip, looking for something I might be able to use to clean up a little. Nothing. So, I walked myself into the bathroom. I looked into the mirror at myself and thought how Goddamn much I wished it was Bucky that had finished on me. Ugh, then we'd shower together...

I reached over and turned the shower faucet. Orange, rusted water poured out and then stopped. Fuck, I still have to pay the water bill. I grabbed some toilet paper and wiped myself off, hoping that would do.

I leaned on the counter where the sink was and looked at myself. I was naked and he wasn't even here with me, though, I swear I imagined him standing behind me a moment ago. I looked tired- it's like I'd risen from the dead. How the Hell did I manage to stay alive encased in ice for 66 years anyway?

I have so, so many questions and I don't think they'll ever actually get answered.

—————

I suppose, though, that's something I'm gonna have to learn to get used to.

This is my life now, isn't it? Unanswered questions, unsolvable missions, unretrievable relationships- more like unresolved love stories.

Fuck me.

~ Steve R.