Margaret Shield (sophist) wrote in dunhavenic, @ 2018-05-31 23:16:00 |
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Entry tags: | !narrative, r * chel, r: margaret shield |
WHO: Margaret Shield
WHEN: This evening
WHERE: The sofa at her house
SUMMARY: ... Margaret experiences a bit time jump.
WARNINGS: Age, dementia, wistfulness.
Margaret was angry. Though she had her connection with Sarah – in this world and others – as well as her newfound acquaintanceship of the man who was Bucky, she still couldn’t fit her brother into her world. She wanted him in Brooklyn with her. Or perhaps in England, fighting her mother alongside her much the same as Michael did when she made her way from Bletchley Park to the SAE. But Michael had come to a sad and untimely end. So, perhaps it was better that her Rupert was not that man. At any rate, she mashed the button down on the remote control, silencing the Downton Abbey rerun (bloody Branson mooning at Sybill again), to pour another glass of wine. But as she stretched her hand out, the one that gripped it was no longer smooth and within her power to control. She froze. The hand she saw was frail, paper-thin skin stretched over protruding bones. This had to pass. She put the glass down and laid her head on the arm of the sofa, allowing her gaze to become soft and unfixed. There, she could remember. … she could remember the soft warmth of the pink quilt covering her legs, its weight comforting even as from her nest of pillows she gazed upon Steve Rogers. Steve, who time seemed to forget. Unblemished by the years he smiled for her and they talked quietly. They rode somewhere between hope and regret. But she was always thrilled to see him. Always ready to push him to be his own man and find a life to live. In turning her head, she caught him in her gaze and the bottom dropped out of her heart. Steve, you’re alive. It’s been so long. Just like that, like the skip of a needle on a record player, or a forgotten stitch that only Margaret could see. Sitting up, she blinked hard several times and, clenching and unclenching her fists, convinced her body who she was and where she lived. “I am Margaret Shield,” she told no one rather forcefully. “I am.” And taking another swallow of wine (this time straight from the bottle), she banished the memory. (For that moment.) |