—Pop.
A jolt.
—Crackle.
Stinging lids snapping open.
—Hiss.
Scrambling upright—
“Gran?”
Ground swaying; you capsize.
***
Pop.
A breath.
Crackle.
Warmth—arms encompassing you.
Hiss.
Coolth—the silky brush of metal.
Heavy eyes prizing open.
Shadows breathe with each dance of the hearth.
“Easy, honey.”
Two voices.
One caress.
“You’re—”
—Cuckoo…
Gran’s clock splitting the hush; you flinch.
Time pressing in…
“Gran’ll need—” Heaving yourself up. “Since the dementia—”
“Whoa, gran’s fine.” —Steve.
“Thor’s regaling her with Asgardian tales.” —Bucky.
“Dinner—” Your heart stuttering. “Chores—”
“Shhh.” Thumbs sweep your sore, shadowy lids.
Pop.
Bucky’s kiss.
Crackle.
Steve’s embrace.
Hiss.
Home.