An Attempt at Sunshine (Winter Soldier) (Marvel)

[52.00] [December 26, 2015]

Almost everyone hugs me the next morning and thanks me for their papers. I am confused. I never expected that sort of response, and I've never hugged that many people in that short of a time.

I skip breakfast to keep him at bay, and instead put on some shoes and step in the elevator to go outside. Just as it's about to close, Steve's hand shoots through the opening and pushes the doors open and he steps inside. I notice he has his shoes on too.

"Where are you going?"

"Outside."

"I'm coming with you."

"Okay."

We stand for a moment, waiting for the doors to open again. He stands a little closer than he would before, and I don't mind.

Turns out I don't know the way out the front door and it's a good thing Steve decided to tag along. He smiles at the receptionist was we enter a large lobby, unnaturally empty for its size. We walk out the large revolving doors (Installed, Steve says, because Tony loves them) and into the snow-covered street.

The air is crisp and cool, but it doesn't ache like his cold does. It's fresh. People stroll down the sidewalk, smiling and talking and laughing. A nearby café fills the air with the scent of warm coffee and fresh doughnuts.

"Where are we going?" ghost-boy asks, just as captivated by the city as I am.

"Can we...Can we go to the old place?"

"Our old apartment?"

"Yes."

"Of course." He grins and we walk a ways before going down stairs that enter the ground. He wraps his hand around my arm and leads me towards a room filled with people, the air baited with calm anticipation.

"What is this" I whisper.

"It's the subway."

"Oh. It looks different."

"Yeah. I had only been down here once before going in the ice. Passes were expensive back then. Now I have a senior discount so-"

I laugh and he pulls a card from his pocket as a large train pulls up to the station.

"We'll take the orange line north till we hit the purple line. We'll transfer there and take it to Brooklyn."

I nod, not understanding a word of it. I follow him onto the train and we find two seats side by side against the right wall. I watch the people, a couple of teenage girls, an older couple, a lone man in a suit. I close my eyes, listening to the soft ambience of the train, until it comes to a stop and we have to get off.

"Hey! Oh man I can't believe this bench is still here. Well I mean it's a different bench but it's in the same spot!"

"You seem a little too excited about that bench."

"I used to come down here and draw people until you'd get home. It was a good spot cause it's right across from that terminal where people would sit still for a while. I loved it."

I grin and stare at the red bench with him for a moment before we hurry off. We arrive just in time for the purple line. It's about a half hour ride, but I don't mind. It's calming. We exit the subway and the morning air is fresh and icy. People bustle around just as before, they are all happy to be alive.

We wind the streets together, occasionally stopping to stare in shop windows. He turns a corner onto a small street lined with large trees.

"It's down this way. Some guy bought it and turned it into a museum."

I watch him brush his hands against the trees as he walks, staring at the doors, his eyes full of summers long since past. My ghost-boy slows as we near a door, crammed in with all the others, the window reads in fading letters 'Howling Commandos museum'.

"We lived on the top floor here. Ms. Harmon was the old lady who wouldn't hound us if we missed our rent day. She liked to see my drawings and would occasionally bring soup when she knew I was sick again."

I follow as he opens the door and steps inside. There are two doors to the right and stairs leading up. An old coat, obviously staged, hangs on one of the hooks to our left.

"I think they guy who owns this place lives in the basement apartment and uses Ms. Harmon's old middle place as an office. The upstairs was kept as close to our own place as possible. Well, along with a bunch of memorabilia."

We move up the creaky stairs and laugh.

"I could never sneak up these..." my voice sounds like someone else's from long ago.

"No, no you couldn't. You were terrible. Always woke me up."

"You were never sleeping in the first place."

He stares at me.

"You're remembering."

I nod.

We continue up the stairs and open the door. A record plays something soft but upbeat in the background. The air is dusty but familiar. To the right lies a small kitchen with a sink and a stove. To the left sits a couch by an empty fireplace. Little things lay around the space, like a sketchbook on the counter, a newspaper over the arm of the couch, or a pot on the stove. Up ahead are two doors.

"They didn't change much. Besides this red rope thing." He brushes his hand against the velvety barrier separating us from the room. I notice on the table sits a few helmets and a coat. They're labeled as belonging to 'Timothy Dugan and Gabriel Jones'. I don't remember those names.

Steve wanders ahead on the velvet-lined path, and I follow close behind. I can see them. Someone who used to be me and my ghost sit at the table playing Solitaire together, they sit around an empty fire wrapped in blankets, they laugh and tell jokes waiting for the morning coffee. They are everywhere, little scenes playing out one by one. A stationary fan spins lazily in the corner.

We enter a small room. It is dark, as it has only one window and no lights. Drawings on thin paper are taped chaotically to the back wall, and a bed sits in the corner to the right. On the wall behind us lies a door to a closet. Steve ducks under the barrier.

"Come here."

I cautiously duck under the rope as well and sit next to him on the creaky bed. It's too familiar. I watch myself enter the room with a glass of water and set it on the floor. I lay a blanket out on the wood and curl up into a tight ball for the night.

"Can you see them too?" I ask quietly.

"Yes." is the response, loaded with caution and fear.

We watch the ghosts, days go by, my ghost draws sometimes and I laugh and lean against the wall and watch. Or maybe it's raining and we curl up on the bed trying to block out the cold. Perhaps it's a birthday and one of us sings all by ourselves as a candle burns in a cupcake. There are sleepless nights and tears and fearful hugs and quiet arguments but we are happy.

Happy.

Steve rests his head on my shoulder.

Happy.

Happy is where you are.