Fury grunts in response. They’ve been watching old films all fucking night, hundreds of feet of film that’s now been taken apart at their feet, curled and faded. Archive quality back then wasn’t quite what it is now.
Topher picks up another delicate Times article from the war and waves it in front of Fury’s face, like a handkerchief.
“Not helpful. Just tell me what you remember.” Topher lets it drop before getting to his feet and shuffling off, muttering the whole time.
Fury stays sitting on one of the boxes, staring at his hands. It’s been a long time since Cap.
---
Two days later Topher has 78% of an imprint done, sort of like a house that’s totally finished save for the moldings around the doors and windows and the faucets in the kitchen and the bathroom. Maybe missing a few lighting fixtures, the tile floor in one room.
“He was like a rock,” Fury says as he walks in, and Topher nearly jumps, staring owl eyed as Fury sits down on Topher’s couch. “The tide. Predictable. With a dreamer’s eye but a realist’s brain.”
Topher thinks it’s the most cohesive thing Fury’s ever said.
“He believed in trust and passion and knowing yourself. Screw apple pie and baseball, the man wanted equality.” Fury tips his head back, staring at the ceiling and beating something out on his thigh.
“That’s not much. Lyrical though. Have you thought about writing a book?” Even as he says it, all snark intended, he’s turned back to his computer.
Sometime in the next hour or two it becomes 99%. Fury looks over his shoulder and drops in the last 1%.
“Oh, and he loved that goddamn fucking shield.”
---
They pull in favors and get a doll sent in from the New York house – lantern jaw, Aryan good looks and shoulders like a fucking brick house. According to his file he was an amateur boxer wanna-be actor before hand. Now he’s never getting his body back. Topher overloads the guy’s original imprint, destroys it. Keeps the wedge at the back of his desk, but very much intends to forget about it.
The imprint is a work of art, as far as Topher is concerned. It works pretty damn well.
“Cap?” Fury’s the one to speak when the chair clicks off and back up into a sitting position. Blue eyes flutter open, and the man frowns.
“I – where am I?” His voice sounds rough, but Topher notices that he doesn’t panic. He’s too well trained for that. Look first, know second, decide to panic third. Or just don’t freak out at all.
“Alive,” Fury says simply.
Captain America sits up all the way, rubbing a hand through his hair.
“I don’t believe it,” he tells Fury.
---
Natasha introduces him to Tony.
The garage is a mess, and Steve looks around, hands in his pockets as he takes stock of the future, the way it’s played out in this one man’s house. Tony himself emerges from a pile of sheet metal, cursing and brushing his jeans off.
“Hi,” Steve says, rocking onto the balls of his feet and watches as Tony slips under tubing of some kid, held up by books and a motorcycle and – what. “Is that-“
Tony follows his eye line, looking confused.
“A particle accelerator? Yeah, no big, I’m taking it down eventually. CERN just wouldn’t let me play with theirs.” Even as he says it, Steve is crossing to where his shield, his arm, is sitting under the pipes. He pulls it out, staring in horror at how much it’s been ripped apart. “Oh yeah, that. Sorry.”
Tony doesn’t sound it, and just shrugs.
“This is like part of my arm,” Steve tells him, meaning every single word of it.
Meaning it so much that something in the very back of his head says no it’s not.
You’ve never held it before.
It’s not yours.
Steve ignores it. This is his, the way it’s always been.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2010-05-23 07:47 pm (UTC)Fury grunts in response. They’ve been watching old films all fucking night, hundreds of feet of film that’s now been taken apart at their feet, curled and faded. Archive quality back then wasn’t quite what it is now.
Topher picks up another delicate Times article from the war and waves it in front of Fury’s face, like a handkerchief.
“Not helpful. Just tell me what you remember.” Topher lets it drop before getting to his feet and shuffling off, muttering the whole time.
Fury stays sitting on one of the boxes, staring at his hands. It’s been a long time since Cap.
---
Two days later Topher has 78% of an imprint done, sort of like a house that’s totally finished save for the moldings around the doors and windows and the faucets in the kitchen and the bathroom. Maybe missing a few lighting fixtures, the tile floor in one room.
“He was like a rock,” Fury says as he walks in, and Topher nearly jumps, staring owl eyed as Fury sits down on Topher’s couch. “The tide. Predictable. With a dreamer’s eye but a realist’s brain.”
Topher thinks it’s the most cohesive thing Fury’s ever said.
“He believed in trust and passion and knowing yourself. Screw apple pie and baseball, the man wanted equality.” Fury tips his head back, staring at the ceiling and beating something out on his thigh.
“That’s not much. Lyrical though. Have you thought about writing a book?” Even as he says it, all snark intended, he’s turned back to his computer.
Sometime in the next hour or two it becomes 99%. Fury looks over his shoulder and drops in the last 1%.
“Oh, and he loved that goddamn fucking shield.”
---
They pull in favors and get a doll sent in from the New York house – lantern jaw, Aryan good looks and shoulders like a fucking brick house. According to his file he was an amateur boxer wanna-be actor before hand. Now he’s never getting his body back. Topher overloads the guy’s original imprint, destroys it. Keeps the wedge at the back of his desk, but very much intends to forget about it.
The imprint is a work of art, as far as Topher is concerned. It works pretty damn well.
“Cap?” Fury’s the one to speak when the chair clicks off and back up into a sitting position. Blue eyes flutter open, and the man frowns.
“I – where am I?” His voice sounds rough, but Topher notices that he doesn’t panic. He’s too well trained for that. Look first, know second, decide to panic third. Or just don’t freak out at all.
“Alive,” Fury says simply.
Captain America sits up all the way, rubbing a hand through his hair.
“I don’t believe it,” he tells Fury.
---
Natasha introduces him to Tony.
The garage is a mess, and Steve looks around, hands in his pockets as he takes stock of the future, the way it’s played out in this one man’s house. Tony himself emerges from a pile of sheet metal, cursing and brushing his jeans off.
“Hi,” Steve says, rocking onto the balls of his feet and watches as Tony slips under tubing of some kid, held up by books and a motorcycle and – what. “Is that-“
Tony follows his eye line, looking confused.
“A particle accelerator? Yeah, no big, I’m taking it down eventually. CERN just wouldn’t let me play with theirs.” Even as he says it, Steve is crossing to where his shield, his arm, is sitting under the pipes. He pulls it out, staring in horror at how much it’s been ripped apart. “Oh yeah, that. Sorry.”
Tony doesn’t sound it, and just shrugs.
“This is like part of my arm,” Steve tells him, meaning every single word of it.
Meaning it so much that something in the very back of his head says no it’s not.
You’ve never held it before.
It’s not yours.
Steve ignores it. This is his, the way it’s always been.