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The supermarket’s display is so vast Steve feels a little sick just looking at it, the familiar sense of discomfort enveloping him, roaring its head, always awake. It’s strange, unfounded, unreasonable. The overabundance of resources is a good thing: the availability he could never dream of in his youth. Still, such a show of it is, firstly, just another indication of his position. Everything is.
Steve watches it, helpless and alone. He went here in the night by choice, hoping that the otherworldliness of the dark would mitigate the whole experience; the lack of people would distract him from the constant knowledge, repeated feeling of displacement. The hope didn’t succeed, not quite in full. The night brings its own ghosts, other recollections.
Steve looks at the display. It’s full of metal boxes that should reheat his food — an invention with a simple concept, and yet seemingly magical — something somebody at SHIELD said he needs, something that he’d die to have once. Steve’s amazed by it: he marvels at the ease, the speed of the future: he’s not the kind of old man that thinks progress kills, desecrates the past. Steve values life’s gifts. Respects them.
He just has no idea where he fits.
The choice’s too big. There are many options, different models, all shapes and sizes; the prices vary, their dependencies unclear. Steve stands across the one most costly. It has an extensive list of modes that he has no idea how to use. Which, honestly, sounds like a metaphor for his new life. He sounds ridiculous, having an existential crisis in the supermarket aisle, Steve thinks and chuckles. His mind tries to follow that with Bucky would’ve—
Steve stops that thought. Steve tries to stop it. He made a promise to himself, forced by the lifeless brochure waiting for him in his bed, Grieving Your Soulmate, to try. He tries.
Steve looks at the display, at the microwave, unfeeling, bleak, gray, in front of him. He used to decipher Nazi’s ciphers in a glance; how’s a household item so beyond him?
“Does that one hold an answer to all the secrets of the universe?”
Steve almost flinches. The voice’s so close, and while it’s quiet, melodic, a rich baritone, the surprise’s not so pleasant. He should’ve heard him coming. Steve turns.
“Oh, I’m sorry, did I startle you?”
The man shows a disarming smile. He’s— familiar, in a strange way, like almost everything is to Steve nowadays: a shadow of recognition instead of certainty, never fully same, his own memory, his own past. The man’s wearing an old t-shirt and pants Steve would’ve called pajamas if he wasn’t so unsure of what counts for what; the man’s beautiful face is an instant inspiration for the artist’s mind; and his smile, crooked, mischievous, hiding secrets, resemble Bucky’s.
Truth be told, Steve’s not so good at disposing of ghosts.
“No worries,” he tries for a polite smile. “Just didn’t see you there.”
“Alright,” the man says, unrepentant in the face of Steve’s— everything. Clothes, unfitting time and trends the way they used to unfit his body, closed body language, the surly tone. “So what about that oven? I was circling the next aisle, and I think I saw you in the same position fifteen minutes ago.”
Steve frowns.
“Am I being weird? You’re allowed to tell me to go fuck myself if I’m too weird.”
“It’s fine,” is it? Steve’s bewildered, mostly, under the man’s stare, direct, heavy, without a shadow of expectations, just— curiosity? “I’m just trying to figure it out.”
It is embarrassing to say that. Steve awaits the upcoming skepticism, surprise, pity, the whole range of feelings he’s so used to seeing. He doesn’t think it’s shameful to admit the lack of knowledge, of understanding; and yet, the knowledge that he lacks has distant bounds. And yet, every time it happens, he’s forced into the role of outsider, again and again. It discourages. Still; not a good reason for a lie.
The man looks at him, saunters closer, hands in his pockets, and tilts his head towards the display.
“That’s a lot of functions,” he says, no inclination what he thinks.
“They seem to lack the instructions of how to achieve those.”
“You don’t say,” the man mutters, then hums. “A fucking horrible UI. Who even did this?”
“A what?” another abbreviation Steve’s supposed to know?
“UI, user interface. Sorry, right, it’s a professional term. Meaning— whoever designed this never actually thought of a person using it. Maybe these,” the man waves at the buttons, “are perfectly understandable for the engineer, but the good product, no matter how intricate, has to be intuitively understandable by anyone. Including your blind, deaf, Amish grandma.”
Steve lifts his eyebrows. The man shrugs.
“It’s a big problem, actually. The failure of accessibility. And everyone keeps designing stuff by the book, forgetting that the book was written years ago, with now absent restrictions, and just not corresponding to the purpose. Look at this one, for example.”
He moves — two long steps to the side, Steve behind him.
“It looks simple,” and it is, with fewer buttons, all words that Steve knows, with illustrations to boot; smaller, cheaper, with softer lines.
“Exactly. You actually would know how to use it.”
The man smiles, wider, happier. Satisfied. Makes a little bow at Steve as if finishing an act, making Steve laugh.
“Thank you for your advice,” Steve says. It’s a little silly, but he feels lighter, calmer, more at ease; such a little thing, but, perhaps, it was the last straw, one thing too much; or, maybe, Steve just needed human connection. “Are you a professional engineer?”
It’s a curiosity; an attempt of small talk; something acceptable, Steve thinks, and he wishes to prolong the moment, keep for a little more this easiness, the pretense of normalcy. The man snaps his head up, eyes searching something in Steve’s face — did he say the wrong thing? — then goes back to smile, now amused by some untold thought.
“I am. Are you always shopping for household items at midnight?”
“It’s a long-honored tradition.”
The man laughs.
“Any chance you give free advice on other appliances?”
An impulse question, born out of the excitement of his night turning better, unexpectedly. Steve freezes after asking it, regroups, reflects; comes to the decision that he doesn’t regret asking it. And it pays off, for the man agrees to the implicated proposition and, introducing himself as Tony, lips twitching in a smile like it’s a name he’s measuring to wear, leads Steve to the world of home electronics. He’s a marvelous guide. Attentive to Steve’s wishes, easy-going, funny, and careful despite being opinionated and direct. His choices look good, too: logical and sensible and fitting.
“This is fun,” Tony says after Steve’s cart fills up, his voice slightly surprised. “I never really go to places like this, you know. Which was a tactical mistake, I’m having a blast. Should I migrate the next work meeting here? Liven things up.”
Steve chuckles at his antics; Tony winks at him, and in that second Steve’s young again, his worries gone, and there’s nothing in the world beside him, his best friend, and all the secrets shared, unsaid but no less important. It’s not a miserable thought. For the first time in a row of many, Steve sees the picture in his mind, imagines himself, Bucky, the summers that belonged to them, and it’s not followed by despair, by the unfading pain.
Tony doesn’t notice, distracted by some new thing; then, he lifts an arm, a candy bar in hand — where did he get that? — and Steve stills at sight. There’s a soulmark on his forearm. It’s only partially out and, after a second, hides back under the shirt again, but with Steve’s perfect memory he could have redrawn it in every small detail. The most shocking, for him, is Tony’s negligence to hide it properly, cover it with a band, wear longer sleeves — anything. Maybe this is another thing that changed, Steve thinks, hollow, fatalistic. Maybe they didn’t tell him, forgot as they did many things, too habitual.
His own mark burns with memories under his clothes.
Steve tries to shake the shock, tries to drop the issue, but sometimes calls to him. The mark. Tony’s mark, the shirt’s sleeve on it, was familiar in the same way Tony himself is: Steve’s certain that he’s never seen it, and yet. The realization comes quick, the understanding of what that pattern means: it is a double. A shape too long, with intricate lines as a connection; it’s two marks, joined, for two people. Two unique symbols for two relationships. Not something you would notice at first glance; unless, of course, you’re too familiar with such a form, too used to seeing the similar one on your own skin.
“I’d prefer you’d ask,” Tony’s voice forces Steve from his zone, returns him to reality; it’s different, his voice, colder, much more guarded.
Steve winces, his shame a rising tide.
“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I shouldn’t have looked.”
Tony shrugs, looks away; his back seems tense. Steve watches him.
“I’m not the one to buckle to the manners. Customs don’t change the fact that you’re interested. Tradition won’t help me in the face of those who want to look.”
It’s not loss of respect, then; it’s resignation to the disrespect of others.
Steve thinks of his own curiosity. It isn’t idle but born out of something else: relation, recognition. He thinks of his own marks. One, meant for the dead man, still filled, bright as it ever was, and still missing the height of Bucky’s brightness; another one, unfilled, never to be changed, most likely, with the relationship it is supposed to talk of never started, never found. Both marks of the dead — and who knows which one’s fate is worse?
Tony’s — the one Steve saw — is filled. But there’s tension in his back, a frown on his face, and Steve doubts it’s a happy story.
“I looked,” he admits. “I thought it was a double. Mine is. It wasn’t easy. I wanted to— never mind. And I don’t think it’s the manners — what should stop people from looking. It’s respect.”
Tony turns back to him, silent. He closes the space and sits next to Steve, right on the floor of an empty supermarket.
“You’re an unusual guy, Steve.”
Steve sits with him.
“I’d say the same for you, Tony.”
“Do you want to hear that story?” Tony taps his arm, right on the place where the mark — marks — are. “I’m offering.”
“Do you want to tell it?”
Tony pauses.
“I think I do.”
“Then I do too.”
He stares in the distance, eyes haunted. When he starts talking, his voice is quiet, soft.
“A year back, I went searching for some people. Friends of the ones that tried to kill me. Yeah, fun start, I know. It’s a different story, not that important… Well, I heard talks of the ghost there. Somebody too elusive to have a name or face, never to be found. I did find him, of course. Then, well, there were a lot of things. I owe him my life, for once. And one of my marks. But I haven’t seen him in months.”
At Steve’s distressed look, Tony just laughs.
“Don’t you worry. I’m fine. And that’s not— he has his reasons. Good reasons. You can’t imagine what he— he’s the bravest person I know,” there’s awe in his voice, at that, a soft reverence. “And he needs to find himself. Define himself. Probably, find our third— did you know that double bearers almost always make up a triad?”
Steve didn’t; the thought is painful. A double loss, then. He knew Bucky had another mark, too, but they never showed each other their unfilled parts, fear seeded by their mothers, the church, their whole world. That wouldn’t have helped anyway, for even for the same person their marks would have been different, meant for the relationships with their lost third, not the third themself.
“It’s a rare science, full of contradictions, the marks. But in this case, the conclusions are rather accurate… Anyway, he has both of his marks filled, hidden in the past he can’t remember. I’ll wait.”
Tony’s sudden melancholic tone is chilling; the contrast’s striking.
“There are always issues with the doubles, is what I mean,” he concludes, a smile back on his face — a sad one.
“You don’t have to pretend you like waiting.”
“Oh, I’m fine. I used to think I won’t find any of them for a way longer time. The waiting’s fine.”
“What’s not?”
Tony grimaces. Stills, words forming in his mouth. Fights some inner battle.
“He’s alone. He deserves not to be alone anymore.”
Steve exhales, a surprised puff of breath.
“It’s idiotic—”
“Nothing but. You’re a good man, Tony.”
Tony chuckles.
“I don’t know why I’m telling you this, Steven. You have a very trustworthy vibe.”
“I’m honored that you did.”
Tony shakes his head.
“You’re— honored, fucking hell. Right. Come on, we need to buy more stuff for you, sleepover’s over.”
Tony jumps to his feet, holds out his hand, and Steve takes it. Touches his hand.
The world bursts out. Blows up. Fills with color. Disappears entirely.
A full eternity later, Steve finds himself back in his own body, rearranged; Tony’s wide eyes locked in a stare with his; with everything the same as it was before; with everything changed. Steve feels the burning on his skin, not illusory, real, but his hand still flies to check; Tony, the sleeve up, looks in wonder at his own marks, both filled. Steve wants to cry, laugh, hug, dance, shout in the sky. Oh, life. Tony looks back at him.
“Not a doppelgänger, huh,” he says faintly. “Both of you. Jesus.”
“What?”
Steve doesn’t understand; Steve has no need to.
“Oh, but you don’t— Steve. The triad.”
Steve’s throat dries.
“It doesn’t work, what you said—”
“No, no, Steve. He’s alive. Bucky’s alive.”