Characters: Steve/Peggy, Tony
Type: Fic and Art
Summary: He is so careful, holding the book like it might crumble in his hands and he doesn't know what to do, because he wants to turn the page and see, wants to remember.
Note: First fic I've ever posted, but you've got to start somewhere, right?
Disclaimer: I do not own, nor am I making money from this. Stock and texture from here.
Steve reaches for the book, not quite sure what Tony has left him, -
- his skin is so cold, lying there like a sick experiment, glassy eyes, Steve doesn't want to know what they did to him, -
- brushes his fingers lightly across the top page, crumpled and aged, like he never did. He recognises his writing in the top left corner.
Steve Rodgers, 1942 - 19--
He picks it up and sits down heavily on his bed.
The pages are bent and torn, exposed by the missing cover, -
- brown, her eyes are so brown, -
He is so careful, holding the book like it might crumble in his hands and he doesn't know what to do, because he wants to turn the page and see, wants to remember.
The last time Steve saw this book it had been intact, leather-bound and safely stored with his other belongings in Italy. Howard had said he'd look after them, -
- "searched for years, spent millions on developing oceanographical technology, He never gave up, not really," -
Steve's sure he did.
He turns the first page, his hands shake a little and he jumps as the paper creaks and promptly breaks off, falling to the floor. What lies beneath it makes Steve not give a damn.
"I'm going to need a rain check on that dance,"
For the first time since he woke up in this strange time, -
"Eight o'clock on the dot.
Don't you dare be late.
- in this strange place, -