Actions

Work Header

Rating:
Archive Warning:
Category:
Fandom:
Relationship:
Characters:
Additional Tags:
Language:
English
Stats:
Published:
2014-05-05
Updated:
2014-09-24
Words:
3,087
Chapters:
2/?
Comments:
10
Kudos:
65
Bookmarks:
7
Hits:
1,595

Paper Hearts

Summary:

All Steve wanted out of junior year was good grades, a comfortable co-existence with his roommate, and a chance to make a difference in his little corner of the world. What he got instead was one James Buchanan Barnes, and that was more than enough to turn everything else upside-down.

**ON HIATUS**

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Chapter Text

"You sure you don't need any help carrying the rest of those?" Steve eyed Natasha dubiously; they'd been carrying boxes into the apartment for the better part of two hours, and while he'd had to take several breathers, as far as he could tell she hadn't even broken a sweat.

 The look she gave him might have made him wilt a little in embarrassment the year before; now, knowing her as well as anyone knew Natasha Romanov, it just made him grin. "You stay where you are, Princess," she said, smirking and nodding at the box of her shoes he was unpacking and organizing in the hall closet. "There's only a few more anyway."

 "Don't pull anything," he called after her with a chuckle, settling back down to take out yet another pair of wickedly tall and pointy high heels and place them on the shoe rack with five more pairs that, to him, looked all but identical (and practically unworn next to his one pair of sneakers and one pair of slightly scuffed dress shoes).

 Thankfully, she hadn’t been understating the situation to make him feel better; after only two more trips up the stairs, carrying two boxes each time, she leaned against the wall next to him and watched him quietly. When he looked up, she nodded, and Steve could finally see a hint of weariness in the set of her mouth. “All done,” she informed him.

 “Good,” he said, standing and wincing as his knees protested the change in position. “Let’s order dinner now and work on the kitchen stuff while we wait.”

 *

 They'd both been organized about the whole thing, thankfully; all their boxes were labelled by room, and Natasha had been reasonably conscientious about placing the boxes she'd brought up in their proper places. Neither of them had brought a lot of kitchen stuff; they'd both lived in the dorms before, and when they did cook it was out of necessity rather than enjoyment. But between the two of them they had most of the basics, and it wouldn't be difficult to make do until they could fill in the gaps.

 For the moment, the most important item was the Chinese takeout menu Nat had brought with her. They pored over it together and picked out their meals, then Steve called to place the order, leaning in the kitchen doorway and watching his friend look around, pick a box and open it. The whole thing felt a little overwhelming just then, and he was glad Natasha was the one starting it; as soon as she unwrapped the first stack of plates from their nest of tea towels and picked a cupboard for them, some of the strangeness bled away, just like it had out in the hall as he'd unpacked their shoes and coats. It wasn't the material things that mattered, it wasn't even where they were placed, it was the act of chipping away at the emptiness bit by bit and replacing it with roots, a space to call home.

 By the time he got off the phone with the Chinese restaurant, Nat had found space for the plates and bowls, and she was working on the glasses and mugs; Steve came up next to her and started folding the tea towels and dishcloths that had cushioned her dishes, and the t-shirts that he'd packed in with his. She wrinkled her nose at him, the scattering of freckles across it shifting with the movement.

 "I hope those were clean," she said disdainfully.

 He laughed and snapped one at her with a flick of his wrist. "They're clean. I seem like the kind of guy who'd wrap clean dishes in dirty laundry?"

 She deftly avoided the shirt, which was fine because he hadn't really meant to hit her with it anyway. "You never know. Men are gross."

 "Why'd you move in with me, then?"

 She sniffed. "You're slightly less gross than most."

 "I love you too, Nat," he told her fondly, hanging one of the tea towels on the handle of the oven door and picking a drawer at random to tuck away the rest.

 *

 By the time their food arrived, they had most of the kitchen done; it was going to take a little while, Steve thought, to learn to share the space without stepping on one another's toes, but the apartment was big enough and both of them had lived in far more adverse conditions than this. They settled down to eat their dinner on the living room floor- they hadn't made it to IKEA to pick out a dining room table yet, so for now the coffee table was the closest thing they had- and both of them were too tired to talk much, or maybe still getting used to this. Steve thought it was the second option, especially when a car alarm shattered the silence outside and Nat jumped a little, trying to cover the motion by reaching for her soda. Steve didn't ask if she was all right. Nat didn't take questions like that as friendly concern, she took them as an insult.

 Instead, he finished his spring roll and wiped his fingers carefully with a napkin. "I think I'm going to visit Gran tomorrow," he mentioned. "Let her know we got moved in all right."

 Natasha nodded- her expression didn't change, but a little of the tension went out of the set of her mouth and shoulders. Steve was learning the signs. "How's she doing in the retirement home?"

 "Still settling in." Steve shrugged. "She's only been there a few weeks, and she lived in that old house for way longer than I've even been alive, so she'll probably take a while to get used to it. It's disorienting for her, I think."

 Something must have shown in his face or voice, because Natasha sighed and shook her head. "We've been over this, Steve," she told him patiently. "It's not your fault. She didn't want you to give up your education, your future, to stay home and take care of her. She'd have been furious with you."

 It's not that Steve didn't know all that. Every word was true, and then some. He'd offered, once, and his grandmother had fixed her steely gaze on him and told him in no uncertain terms what she thought of that idea and how miserable she'd make his life if he went through with it. "I won't have you throwing your scholarship away, young man," she'd snapped. "That's final. Your mother and I already looked into retirement homes a few years ago, and when I can't live alone anymore I know exactly where I'll be going." She'd softened a little, then, and patted his hand. "You've got so much talent, Steve, and so much life. Live it. I'll still be here a while yet."

 "I know," he said now, shaking off the memory. "I just can't help feeling bad. Family should come first."

 Nat's mouth twisted into a wry smile. "I'll take your word for it, kid."

 He laughed and handed her the last spring roll. "You do that."

 *

 Even after making his bed with the same old sheets and the same old worn comforter, Steve had a hard time getting to sleep that night. He knew it wasn't uncommon for people to have trouble sleeping the first few nights in a new place; the thought only led him to thinking of his grandmother, how difficult and strange it must have been for her to go from the cozy little house that had been her home for more than thirty years to a place that, as nice as it had seemed every time he'd been there, was still essentially a bed in a dormitory.

 Eventually he rolled onto his side, facing the humidifier so he could breathe just a little better, and did his best to push those thoughts away. She did seem content in the retirement home, after all. Which was good, in no small part because there was nothing that could be done about it now. The house was sold, that last refuge of Steve's childhood after his mother's death and the sale of the house he'd grown up in.

 Someone else would be happy there, he thought drowsily. It was all right. It was good. There was never any going back, anyway.

 His dreams that night were vague impressions of blurred colours and cold wind rushing past his face; when he woke halfway in the middle of the night, he couldn't be sure whether he had been flying or falling. When he woke in the morning, he couldn't remember if he'd dreamed at all.