Forgotten isn't quite the word. He feels... set aside, in a strange way. Like a weapon people have decided to store in a bunker that will never see the light of day again. He understands that was not the goal, that thinking of himself like a weapon is not the most productive move, but that doesn't quite change the feeling does it?
It's foolish. But he'd rather be in the world than hiding out from it, even in paradise.
He doesn't belong there.
"Natasha," he repeats and finally sets the glass down, "a modern name for a modern gal." No one really says 'gal' anymore either, and he's well aware, but he will conduct a one-man resurgence of the term if at all possible.
"I didn't, at first. Didn't remember much of nothing useful or important to begin with." How much does she know, of the shitshow state his brain was in? How much he owes Wakanda, the Dora Milaje? Well. She knows some of it.
She was there. Again and again and then not and then. Again. Years later, when he'd already been forced to forget her. (Again, and again, and then not.)
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It's foolish. But he'd rather be in the world than hiding out from it, even in paradise.
He doesn't belong there.
"Natasha," he repeats and finally sets the glass down, "a modern name for a modern gal." No one really says 'gal' anymore either, and he's well aware, but he will conduct a one-man resurgence of the term if at all possible.
"I didn't, at first. Didn't remember much of nothing useful or important to begin with." How much does she know, of the shitshow state his brain was in? How much he owes Wakanda, the Dora Milaje? Well. She knows some of it.
She was there. Again and again and then not and then. Again. Years later, when he'd already been forced to forget her. (Again, and again, and then not.)
"But I do now."