The Changing of Colours - Steve/Bucky, MCU, Game of Cards Battle p. 1
Word Count = 504
Central Park is bathed in a hue, not unlike the midst of a setting sun, with yellows making way to oranges and reds, the ground a carpet of leaves instead of grass. It’s beautiful. One might even call it artistic.
There’s an image in a man’s mind and desire in his fingers to capture the scene but he has no paper, or pencils, and although the camera in his phone “rivals the best equipment of professional photographers” he has no desire to use it. A camera is automatic; what does everyone say? Point and click. It’s too much gain for too little work.
Things used to take time. Things used to rely on memory, the human computer as opposed to computers for humans.
Where r u?
He looks down at his phone, the tiny letters that he wouldn’t have had a hope of seeing when he was a child, now no match for his 20/20 vision. He should reply. It’s the polite thing to do. There really is no cause for concern--
Cap??
He looks away from his phone when he hears the delighted squeal of a doe-eyed toddler.
She looks to be about three or four years old, dark brown hair in pigtails, and dressed in purple from top to toe. The girl breaks out into a run. The ground crunches under her feet as she tramples on dead leaves. She’s caught by a man who slings her over his shoulder with a neon green backpack clutched in his gloved hand.
Ur watching him again, aren’t u? says the incoming text. The vibration passes through his the skin of his palm, rattling him.
He rolls his eyes.
A few seconds later another one appears. Man, r u hiding behind a tree??
I’m not, is his reply, but that of course is a lie.
---
They’ve done this dance a million times before. “How’s your boy looking?”
He toes of his shoes, mindful of their backs because there’s no faster way of destroying a good pair of shoes-
Baby, what have I told you about this?
Sorry, Mama.
That’s okay, just be careful, you know these have to last you.
--than ruining their backs, and turns to Sam. “He’s not my boy,” he answers quietly. He feels like he’s coming down with something, impossibility be damned. He begins to unwrap the scarf around his neck. It’s one of those gradient scarfs, blue changing into purple, the wool thick, and heavy with a fringe at both ends. It’s his favourite item of clothing.
He can feel Sam at his back as they enter the kitchen. “Man-” Sam sounds worried and he turns away, to protect him. He’s never liked his ability to spread sadness.
He cuts in, shutting his friend down. “What’s on the agenda today?” He opens the cabinet above his head only to find no cereal. Sam’s silence is telling. “I guess I’ll go down to the gym.”
“Steve, this isn’t healthy.”
The cabinet closes.
“I know.”
A million and one.
Central Park is bathed in a hue, not unlike the midst of a setting sun, with yellows making way to oranges and reds, the ground a carpet of leaves instead of grass. It’s beautiful. One might even call it artistic.
There’s an image in a man’s mind and desire in his fingers to capture the scene but he has no paper, or pencils, and although the camera in his phone “rivals the best equipment of professional photographers” he has no desire to use it. A camera is automatic; what does everyone say? Point and click. It’s too much gain for too little work.
Things used to take time. Things used to rely on memory, the human computer as opposed to computers for humans.
Where r u?
He looks down at his phone, the tiny letters that he wouldn’t have had a hope of seeing when he was a child, now no match for his 20/20 vision. He should reply. It’s the polite thing to do. There really is no cause for concern--
Cap??
He looks away from his phone when he hears the delighted squeal of a doe-eyed toddler.
She looks to be about three or four years old, dark brown hair in pigtails, and dressed in purple from top to toe. The girl breaks out into a run. The ground crunches under her feet as she tramples on dead leaves. She’s caught by a man who slings her over his shoulder with a neon green backpack clutched in his gloved hand.
Ur watching him again, aren’t u? says the incoming text. The vibration passes through his the skin of his palm, rattling him.
He rolls his eyes.
A few seconds later another one appears. Man, r u hiding behind a tree??
I’m not, is his reply, but that of course is a lie.
---
They’ve done this dance a million times before. “How’s your boy looking?”
He toes of his shoes, mindful of their backs because there’s no faster way of destroying a good pair of shoes-
Baby, what have I told you about this?
Sorry, Mama.
That’s okay, just be careful, you know these have to last you.
--than ruining their backs, and turns to Sam. “He’s not my boy,” he answers quietly. He feels like he’s coming down with something, impossibility be damned. He begins to unwrap the scarf around his neck. It’s one of those gradient scarfs, blue changing into purple, the wool thick, and heavy with a fringe at both ends. It’s his favourite item of clothing.
He can feel Sam at his back as they enter the kitchen. “Man-” Sam sounds worried and he turns away, to protect him. He’s never liked his ability to spread sadness.
He cuts in, shutting his friend down. “What’s on the agenda today?” He opens the cabinet above his head only to find no cereal. Sam’s silence is telling. “I guess I’ll go down to the gym.”
“Steve, this isn’t healthy.”
The cabinet closes.
“I know.”
A million and one.