America's Favorite Pastime
I missed a lot in my years spent dormant and adrift in the North Atlantic. The sum total of minute cultural detail that passed me by is baffling in its magnitude, and I'm afraid no matter how much time I spend trying to catch up it's a moot endeavor. There were bigger things, though, more important things that I missed. The death of the president, a man who personally guided me through what I thought would be the hardest endeavor of my life. The end of the war I had been created to fight. I saw little of the Pacific, and only spent time there before the worst of the campaign was happening. I've seen news reels since, read accounts. It turned into a hell I didn't realize could exist in a war fought by people, but then, the things we found in Europe had shocked and horrified me, too. It's where the legacy of the shield was forged, where I became a real soldier, the European theater. Today, according to the calendar, is V-E Day.
Back home, for years- the years I wasn't there for- there would be ticker tape parades for this day. It was important. No one in the modern day remembers, or cares about, the day the Allied forces declared victory in Europe. It's a war the outcome of which everyone now takes for granted, but it was hard won.
I don't yet have a permanent residence built on the island- I certainly don't have the resources to throw a ticker tape parade. Hearing the date mentioned over breakfast took me by surprise, and I immediately resolved first to keep track of the island calendar and second to find some way, any way, to celebrate the occasion.
So of course I seek out the only other person I can think of, although I've heard Wolverine is around. I find Bucky at his place, carrying two gloves and a baseball with me, and for lack of any other ideas, ask him to a game of catch. The look on his face when I do just about defies description, but of course he agrees. I don't know exactly if it's out of a sense of obligation to me, or to the day- wanting to acknowledge it and, like myself, not knowing how- or if he genuinely wants to, but he agrees, and I'm grateful.
After fifteen minutes, my arm is beginning to warm up.
"Have you been practicing for the season?" I call to him, snapping a fast, straight pitch his way. He catches it deftly, and rocks back on one heel before he returns the ball as accurately as he would have thrown any knife.
"Pretty sure Rogue'd kill me if I said anything but yes," he replies. "The lady's got high standards, I'll give her that."
"That she does. She was pretty clear about the minimum state my shoulder needed to be in to step in for Banshee. And I hear Logan is the catcher? Heck of a team," I murmur with a slight shake of my head.
"How is the shoulder?"
I catch his next throw easily, rotating my right shoulder a little, and then lob it back with the slightest of grins.
"Just fine."
"Let's keep it that way," he says. "We've got a game to win, and we're already down a few players as is."
"I hear you, Bucky," I say, and anyone else would roll their eyes but I refrain. "No overdoing it."
He smirks, slightly. "At least save it for when it counts."
"That I can do."
For whatever reason, Bucky doesn't return the pitch right away, breaking the established rhythm. A second's observation reveals it's because he's gone and switched hands. The glove is now tucked into the crook of his right arm. The fingers of his left hand are curled around the ball.
"Then think fast!"
It's a fairly childish move to pull, and that fact alone is what saves me from being ticked off about it. I make to catch the pitch- I do catch the pitch- but that metal super-arm of his makes it like trying to catch a slug from a panzer and it pushes through my grip, out the top of my glove and away into the dirt. I grimace and grab my side, still recovering from my visit to Peter's, and shoot Bucky a pointed look.
"Cute, Bucky. Real cute." I turn to head for the ball but stop when I spy someone coming upon the clearing, and raise my glove instead.
"Little help?"
Timed for Sunday afternoon. Tag one or both! Order will be Character-Bucky-Steve! Note that Bucky's arm looks perfectly normal.
Back home, for years- the years I wasn't there for- there would be ticker tape parades for this day. It was important. No one in the modern day remembers, or cares about, the day the Allied forces declared victory in Europe. It's a war the outcome of which everyone now takes for granted, but it was hard won.
I don't yet have a permanent residence built on the island- I certainly don't have the resources to throw a ticker tape parade. Hearing the date mentioned over breakfast took me by surprise, and I immediately resolved first to keep track of the island calendar and second to find some way, any way, to celebrate the occasion.
So of course I seek out the only other person I can think of, although I've heard Wolverine is around. I find Bucky at his place, carrying two gloves and a baseball with me, and for lack of any other ideas, ask him to a game of catch. The look on his face when I do just about defies description, but of course he agrees. I don't know exactly if it's out of a sense of obligation to me, or to the day- wanting to acknowledge it and, like myself, not knowing how- or if he genuinely wants to, but he agrees, and I'm grateful.
After fifteen minutes, my arm is beginning to warm up.
"Have you been practicing for the season?" I call to him, snapping a fast, straight pitch his way. He catches it deftly, and rocks back on one heel before he returns the ball as accurately as he would have thrown any knife.
"Pretty sure Rogue'd kill me if I said anything but yes," he replies. "The lady's got high standards, I'll give her that."
"That she does. She was pretty clear about the minimum state my shoulder needed to be in to step in for Banshee. And I hear Logan is the catcher? Heck of a team," I murmur with a slight shake of my head.
"How is the shoulder?"
I catch his next throw easily, rotating my right shoulder a little, and then lob it back with the slightest of grins.
"Just fine."
"Let's keep it that way," he says. "We've got a game to win, and we're already down a few players as is."
"I hear you, Bucky," I say, and anyone else would roll their eyes but I refrain. "No overdoing it."
He smirks, slightly. "At least save it for when it counts."
"That I can do."
For whatever reason, Bucky doesn't return the pitch right away, breaking the established rhythm. A second's observation reveals it's because he's gone and switched hands. The glove is now tucked into the crook of his right arm. The fingers of his left hand are curled around the ball.
"Then think fast!"
It's a fairly childish move to pull, and that fact alone is what saves me from being ticked off about it. I make to catch the pitch- I do catch the pitch- but that metal super-arm of his makes it like trying to catch a slug from a panzer and it pushes through my grip, out the top of my glove and away into the dirt. I grimace and grab my side, still recovering from my visit to Peter's, and shoot Bucky a pointed look.
"Cute, Bucky. Real cute." I turn to head for the ball but stop when I spy someone coming upon the clearing, and raise my glove instead.
"Little help?"
Timed for Sunday afternoon. Tag one or both! Order will be Character-Bucky-Steve! Note that Bucky's arm looks perfectly normal.