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shurisneakers · 2 years

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bridges break (vii)

summary: steve shuts himself away. you pull him along on a trip of a lifetime in an attempt to reconnect. great plan! except there’s one big secret he’s keeping from you that could change the course of your entire relationship, and there’s no greasy stack of diner pancakes in the country big enough to hide behind.

(road trip!au, best friends to lovers)

Warnings: mentions of death, injuries, war, angst, mental health issues and disorientation, ptsd, swearing, panic attacks, lemme know if i missed anything and I’ll tag it.

A/N: hate mail to j*ss whedon for not making the avengers friends when he literally. could have. like it was right there. and now unfortunately i have to stick to that part of canon like sir you're ruining my found family ihysm. anyway this part mentions tony. (how are we all doing btw how is everyone's life going?)

Previous Part || Series Masterlist

"Fact number 3. Captain America's favourite colours are red, blue and white."

Steve's face contorts. "Absolutely not."

"I can see why they think that," you say through a mouthful of popcorn. "Take a wild guess, why don't you."

"I prefer the stealth suit," he grumbles. "Not that they cared to ask."

"Because you'd tell 'em if they did? King of open communication?" you retort before going back to your phone.

Steve stays quiet. He knows it's a joke but there's a bite to it that he isn't sure you've used before.

"Fact number 4. The shield is calibrated to return to his arm constantly," you continue, however.

"Now that's just wrong," he states. "Sometimes it comes back to my face."

You hold back a laugh. "You've hit yourself in the face with your shield?"

"I wasn't born with the ability to throw that thing around, you know." He can't help a smile. "The serum was the only thing that stopped us from finishing half the army's medical supplies. I had a new broken bone at the end of each day because I caught it wrong."

"What?"

"Broke both my femurs once. Had to lay there on the ground for a couple hours till it healed so I could walk back to the main camp."

You wince. "Steve."

"They always leave that out of the movies," he says dryly. "Wonder why."

"You're insane." You shake your head. "I feel bad for Bucky."

Steve finds himself grinning. "He was convinced I liked doing it."

"Your smile doesn't tell me otherwise," you say, entirely unimpressed yourself.

There was still a tiny scar on his shin. He sometimes saw it when his legs were propped up in front of him. Each time, ghosts of the searing pain shoot up his thigh and fade away a second later.

"Fact number 5," you digress when he doesn't counter your earlier statement, "His favourite food is apple pie."

Steve shrugs.

"I know that's wrong. You like blueberry better."

The corner of his mouth quirks into a tiny smile. "I do."

"Fact number 6," you call from where you lay on the bed. "His favourite movie is Gone With the Wind."

Steve stares at you from the chair, one leg crossed over the other.

"Well?" you urge. "Is it?"

"How many of these are there?" he asks wearily.

"Like, twenty four." You turn back to the phone when he doesn't answer. "Fact number-"

"Please," he says. "No more."

"Fair enough."

He watches you close the tab, dropping the phone onto your chest.

"It isn't Gone With The Wind."

"Yeah, I know."

You continue to stare at the ceiling. It's an easy afternoon, for the both of you to rest. Check out was later and then you were supposed to be on the road again.

"You know, I don't think I've ever asked you that," you say, flipping onto your stomach to eye him. "What is your favourite colour?"

Steve thinks for a second but invariably settles on the first colour that pops into his head.

"Yellow."

"Fun." You pull your phone out from under you and unlock it again. "I'm gonna comment that, hold on."

After a beat, Steve asks, "What'd you say?"

"Told them I have it on good record that Steve Rogers' favourite colour is yellow--" your focus stays on whatever you were typing out-- "and that their list sucks."

"Maybe leave out the last part," he suggests.

"And posted." You give him a thumbs up. "I'll give it five minutes before someone starts an argument with me in the replies."

He's gotten into his fair share of online arguments. It'd dwindled over the years, but there were enough for his PR agent to pale whenever she saw him near a phone.

"Did you actually post that?"

"Huh?" you ask, but it comes out distant as you click dedicatedly at something.

"Are you already fighting with someone?"

"Give me a second." You hold up a finger.

Steve settles on watching you focus on the task at hand.

In a flash, your nose scrunches up all weird. He thinks it's adorable, especially when he catches your eye and you immediately try to get rid of the disgust, disdain, whatever it was.

"What?" He laughs.

"Nothing."

"C'mon," he prods. "I'll tell you my favourite movie."

"That's a trick question, Rogers." You wave the same raised finger at him. "You don't have a favourite movie."

Steve huffs a little at the failed attempt, but his heart swells. Just a little. A normal amount. He represses the everloving shit out of it.

"It's nothing," you repeat, locking your phone again and dropping it beside you. "I just took a Buzzfeed quiz to find out my superhero boyfriend."

Steve's eyebrow quirks up. "And?"

"It's the raccoon." You sigh. "The space raccoon."

"Rocket?" Steve asks. "Yeah, I could see that working out."

"Do you now?"

"I've got a way of contacting him around here somewhere. You think you can wait that long?"

You reach over to throw a pillow at him and Steve laughs when it misses by a long shot.

_____

The clear, unobstructed skies are dealt with by looming trees. Dark, tall and swaying.

Steve loses sight of the road minutes into the woods, watching in awe and trepidation. His ears stay tuned-- he can hear every footstep in a two-mile radius if he really tried, and for a second he really does consider it.

The car moves along slowly, windows rolled down welcoming the freshness. Steve inhales and exhales just as deep, letting clean, crisp air flood his system.

"That's the owner," you sing, pulling the car to a halt by the side of the house.

It's a wooden A-frame, with windows giving him a peek into the inside. A ramp goes up the side and to the back, serving as an entrance and a patio, a pit out front for campfires.

Steve steps out first, doing a quick scan of the environment before you join him. Nothing was wrong. Yet.

You greet the blonde woman dressed in a bright red tracksuit, hair up in a pony and a bandana pushing back flyaways.

One hand on her hip and the other out to meet yours in a shake, she jumps back and forth between Steve and you as you introduce yourselves.

"It's nice to meet y'all," she chirps, eyeing the both of you up and down. "We get a lot of couples out here this time of year. Y'all got lucky with the booking."

"Oh, we're not..." you begin before trailing. "Thanks for fitting us in."

She catches it, however, raising an eyebrow at Steve. He gives her a polite smile.

"Here's the number to the keypad. Just remember to keep the noise down if you're playing music, no smoking, no pets. If you're using the fire pit, pour water over it when you're done."

"Got it," you confirm. "Won't be an issue."

"I'll be a few miles away at our campsite." She looks at him. "Don't hesitate to call or visit if you need anything. My phone's on at all times."

"Thanks." He gives her a smile.

"At all times," she repeats slowly as she backs away. It has you stifling a laugh.

"We'll keep that in mind," he replies. "Have a nice day."

"You too!" she calls out. "Make yourselves comfortable. Have a nice stay."

You wave at her as she gets into her own car, engine whirring to life as she pulls away, but not before sending him another look out her window.

"Wow," you say in awe when her car disappears beyond the trees.

"I know, it's beautiful." Steve isn't even looking the same direction as you are, seemingly having turned towards the house in the middle of the encounter.

You look at him strangely, almost as if you're gauging his reaction. "Uh huh. That's what I'm talking about. The house."

He tilts his head at you and you dismiss it with a shake of yours.

"Come on," you adjust the bag over your shoulder. "I call dibs on the upstairs bedroom."

_______

The sun sets faster in this part of the world, or he just doesn't notice the time slipping by.

Afternoon turns to evening turns to night in a flash by the time he comes back from exploring the nearest surroundings. There's a lake nearby, still and gentle with a paddle boat nearby that he might convince you to go on the next day.

But above all else, there is just overwhelming quiet. He can hear twigs cracking a mile away, the beating of your heart next to him as you walk beside him and every bird that lands on a branch.

You eat dinner out in the open that night, diner food balance don your laps as you sat on the stairs. Steve has a jacket thrown on. He realises he doesn't really need it, but he keeps it on nonetheless.

"Staying in places like this for at least a week would factory reset your brain," you say. "It's dangerous."

"What d'you mean?" he asks.

"Why do you think people who go on vacation sometimes just stay there?" You bite down on another spoonful of rice. "It's the peace. Once you get addicted, there's no going back."

"Have you?"

"Not yet." You shake your head lightly. "I don't ever stay long enough. I've got work to finish that I won't get to otherwise."

Steve finds himself relating a little too much to that. "Yeah."

"My parents liked it," you add wistfully, almost. "The quiet. Our house was silent a lot."

Steve has nothing to say in reply. He supposes that's why he hears you humming to yourself so much-- filling in spaces left behind by other people.

"But maybe someday." You shrug, facing him with a little smile. "It's something to look forward to."

"Today we're in Morocco. Next week we'll be in Lebanon," she says. "After that who knows?"

"Depends on where we're needed next." He takes aim and throws his dart.

"I guess.” She watches it hit the board. “And eventually, we won’t be needed anywhere." Nat looks at him. "That's what we're doing this for, aren't we?"

"That's the goal." He offers her a dart out of his own pile. She turns it down. "Don't know if that's ever gonna happen. Retirement, stability; it seems a long way off."

"The quiet?" Steve asks.

"The quiet," you affirm.

The sky is cloudy, but the moon is bright enough to illuminate the area around you without the support of the cabin lights. You don't say anything much, only tidbits of conversations here and there.

The leaves rustle whenever a draft blows, and once the wind chime that hangs above you both settles down, you are left in the same silence as before.

He can't tell if he likes it or not.

_______

Steve raises his arms above his head and stretches until he hears the usual pop in his shoulder.

The sweater he's wearing rides up his waist, exposing a tiny sliver of skin before his arms drop to the side again. It was cooler outside than he'd thought it would be, even after you'd raised the temperature in the house in anticipation of it getting even worse at night.

"G'morning," you say, sipping from a mug, settled back in a lounge chair on the patio.

"Is it?" he squints at the sun.

"Well no. It's like, one o'clock, but I didn't wanna wake you," you confess. "Thought you'd need the rest."

Something-- and he' can't quite put his finger on it-- had kept him on edge the entire night. His sleep was light, barely there, just in case something decided to show up from the trees.

"Breakfast?" you propose. "Brunch, actually."

"I'll get it," he replies. "It's in the bag?"

"Yeah, there's some muesli for you. Bread's on the counter," you reply, going back to the news you were reading.

Steve steps into the house, bare feet against the cool floors. He locates the duffel bag on the dining table, already left open.

He finds the box of cereal fairly quickly, and as he pulls it out it reveals the supply of crackers, chocolate and marshmallows underneath.

It brings a smile to his face as he reads the label on each one, sifting through a few ready made meals before his sight lands on a box somewhere near the bottom.

Pancake mix, and a tiny, sealed bottle of syrup.

He sends a glance over to where you're sitting unaware, back turned to him.

It takes him about twenty minutes to find a pan, mix up the batter and make enough pancakes to keep the both of you full the whole day.

_____

Tonight, you declared, was the fateful night.

"You can see the stars clearly from the outskirts," you tell him. "And apparently it's not supposed to be cloudy tonight, so yay."

It's a task, but you gather up all the firewood you could find, a big grin on your face as you drop it near the pit. Steve follows behind, carrying even more than you were, amusement on his face.

"C'mon," you instruct, "time to put those arson skills to use, Rogers."

So he does. Puts all his century-gathered knowledge together and creates the best fire he can, steady and would last a pretty long time. By the time he's done, even he's impressed.

"You got the bucket?" he queries. "The owner said it'd be under the kitchen sink."

"Have it right here, filled and ready to go," you confirm, patting at it. "Don't worry, I heard her through all the swooning."

He pokes at the fire to shift around some sticks. "What swooning?"

You narrow your eyes at him. "Don't tell me you couldn't see it."

Steve holds onto the log for longer than usual before declaring, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, my God." You bite down on your lip to prevent a laugh. "I know you're shitting me, Rogers, there is no way you didn't notice her flirting with you."

"Is that what this is about?" Steve's eyebrow creases. "I didn't notice."

"Sure you didn't."

"Swear to God, I got no clue what you're talking about."

"She told you to visit her campsite," you remind him lightly, "at any time, whenever you want."

Steve's face twists when realisation sets in. "I didn't read into it."

"She's got a little crush on you," you tease. "Who can blame her, really?"

"Stop it," he mumbles, attributing the heat creeping up his neck to the fire. "She doesn't."

"Do you usually not notice when people hit on you or--?" you point out, "Because it's been happening on this trip, too. I have eyes, I can count."

"First of all, I didn't get hit on for about, sixty per cent of my life," he retorts. "And when I did, it was hard to miss."

You quirk an eyebrow, throwing a random twig into the flame. "What, no playing coy?"

"The exact opposite." Steve's smile, the one he reserves for the days gone by, is slight to himself. "Sometimes the girls used to just grab me and kiss me. It caused a lotta trouble.”

The boys used to keep track of every time Steve stumbled into his quarters with lipstick smudged across his cheek and genuine excuses for being late being met with 'uh huh, yeah right!'. They thought it was the funniest shit in the world while he painstakingly wiped away at his mouth.

You, however, react differently. A flinch. It's small enough that he probably wouldn't have even caught it if he wasn't paying so much attention.

He's quick to ask, "What's wrong?"

“I dunno. Just think that they shoulda asked first.”

He pauses to think about it for a second. Wonders if that's why he never laughed as much as the boys did.

He can’t think of a response so he lets it go.

"She doesn't have a crush on me." He feels the need to defend.

"Absolutely." You nod. "I completely agree with you."

You laugh when he mumbles something under his breath and it drags a reluctant smile from him.

As dusk moves into night, the clear sky is unfortunately forced covered by clouds rolling in. Not a star to be seen.

"Maybe it'll clear up in a while," he offers.

You sigh. "I don't think so. Damn weather forecast lied to me."

Steve's mouth presses into a thin line. "I'm sure we'll see it along the trip somewhere."

"I suppose," you reply, head turned up to the sky. "I thought we could see it together. I loved stargazing as a kid.”

“I remember you telling me.” Steve's face can’t help itself, his lip tugging upwards.

“Yeah, I’d stay up pretty late to wait for my parents so I found my way towards it. I picked up on a few constellations to show them but they were always too tired." Your head inclines, trying to see past the clouds. “Or they weren’t really interested. But eventually, that’s what got me into science, y’know?”

Steve’s mouth tugs to the side unhappily, eyebrows knitting together. He doesn't know how you were so casual about them, each time, after everything.

You face him again. “Did you ever do it? Stargazing?"

"Not like you, I think," he says. "I can name a few constellations, but that's it."

"You got a favourite?"

"Scorpius," Steve replies. "This kid in my apartment used to point it out to me from the roof sometimes. He liked insects in general, used to chase his sisters around with them.”

A wide smile grows on your face. "That's adorable."

But it’s been years since Walt was long gone; so was his mother and his sisters and almost everyone else in that brick-walled apartment that was falling apart at the seams.

He clears his throat before he can think too hard about it. "Your favourite changes every time you do this, doesn’t it?"

"It does." You reach over to pull out the supply of marshmallows you'd got along the way. "I can't ever pick one."

"Do you have a favourite star?"

"Yeah," you shoot back, smile changing into a grin, "You."

It's the first terrible joke you've made in days. That fact alone is enough to get a laugh from him. It smells of relief and mixes with a groan.

"Leave one out for the bears," he reminds as you hand him a stick with a marshmallow speared on one end.

"Mighty generous of you, Steven." You hold it over the fire. "I'll make extras for you too. Gotta get that energy in when you're fighting them."

"Yeah, you gotta even the playing field."

The joke brings with it the memory of bright sunflowers that should be picture perfect, but instead, it feels like someone's poured water over the campfire.

His fingers itch, and he chooses to run it through his hair to shake off the sudden despair that threatens to weave its way through him again.

Steve reminds himself that's why he keeps the jacket on.

When he looks back at you, your face has sobered too. It's no stretch to assume you were reminded of the way the afternoon had taken a turn after a mostly pleasant day.

"What happened there that day, Steve?" you ask softly, pulling your roasted marshmallow back from the flame.

"I don't know." He bites the inside of his lip. "Guess I was just tired."

He was, but even you know that wasn't entirely truthful.

"I'm not going to push you," you say, neck craned towards him. "But I think keeping everything in isn't the way to deal with it."

His own treat is singed at the edges by the time he remembers he pulls it back, but he can hardly find it in himself to care. He doesn't even think he wants to eat it anymore.

"Everyone says it's something different. The way I am." Everyone's got an opinion, everyone's dissected him open on every television station, podcast, internet forum. "Everything from possession to being a cyborg."

"Doesn't matter what they think."

"What's your assessment?" Steve turns to you.

"Doesn't matter what I think either." You look him in the eye. "I'm not qualified to hand one out. Different kinda doctor."

But it does. It does matter what you think.

Steve looks at you before looking back up at the clouds.

"We didn't have names for all this back then." He finds it easier to talk about the war than himself. "Mostly just called it shell shock or combat fatigue. Sometimes all it took was thirty days on the field."

He can hear it it still, ringing in his ears. With the flashbacks and the commands he remembers shouting over raining bullets, the only thing missing was the smell of blood stained mud and death lingering close by. He doesn't know how he speaks so easily about it, like a reality he's detached himself from. He supposes it was good. If he re-lived every emotion he went through during those years, he'd go insane.

"The first year out of the ice, they had me meet with a few living World War 2 vets. Some sort of publicity stunt, I don't know." He shrugs. "They thought it'd be good."

Your breath hitches in your throat.

"Didn't really know them, but I knew people who knew them," Steve says. "We talked about what we remembered. Most of it matched up, some of it were things I didn't even know happened."

They stuck him on a plane within two weeks of coming out of the ice and attributed his face going pale and vice like grip on his knees to air sickness. It took a while to get used to being in the sky again.

"One of the guys there, retired Colonel, was talkin' about how one of the privates was gonna get court-martialed for going A.W.O.L. during the war." Steve shifts, tugging his arms closer together. "Just a kid too, eighteen years old. Don't know how they even got past Basic, they always did the vilest shit to get you ready for what's out there."

"I can handle it."

"You're all of four feet tall with twigs for bones, and you think you can handle it just cause your mamma called you a strong boy? Go home."

"I can handle it," Steve repeats, teeth gritting, sweat tearing down his skin. The sky had barely seen the light of day and his muscles already ached in places he couldn't put a finger on.

"Why, cause you got heart? You believe in the power of friendship?" The man's stare hardens like his fingertips. "What those posters sell ya- that's all bullshit, kid. That ain't gonna save you."

Steve's fingernails bruise into the palm of his hands but he doesn't shift.

"This-" He shoves at his chest and Steve is forced to take a step back, heels digging into the soil. "This is gonna save you."

He'd seen this kind of people before. Ones that violence hadn't made softer, just the opposite.

"Your scientist buddy may believe in that good man, boy scout horseshit but out there-" the man points behind him- "out there, Rogers, there are no morals. Would you eat a brother if you were starving? Would you stand on his dead body to pick fruit from a tree?"

Stories of pushups with broken ribs, limbs getting blown up right in front of him. Always hard to talk about the nicer things, the good things in life. Stories shrouded in negativity flow from his heart so easily that he fears that it's become his new normal.

"They called it the war to end all wars. It's what they told everyone, told them their sacrifice would be worth it. You start losing friends once, twice and then over and over again and you start wondering--" Steve presses his mouth into a thin line. "Come out a hundred years later and nothing's changed."

Your mouth is pressed into a hard line. You don't say anything, however.

"That's my assessment." He looks at you. "I think that's what happened there. Thought I'd gotten used to it, letting go of people you care about. Apparently I didn't."

He didn't think he'd have to deal with it again. He'd put it away, locked it in a room with the rest of the memories of the war and when he was forced to break it open again, it just didn't compute.

"We didn't talk about it," he continues, voice clear. "Wasn't really heard of to ask for help. You just... dealt with it. Moved on. Get out of there if you can and get your life together if it all works out."

Some of them dealt with it well. He met Morita's grandson, and from what he heard, the man had lived a good life. He wouldn't talk about the war too often but when he did, it was always about the boys. Others were lost in thousand yard stares and memories he kept locked away, but his grandson mentioned the clementines he always had for him when he visited.

"Have you talked to someone about this?" you lean forward on your elbows. "Anyone?"

"Sam knows a little bit. Buck too, but that's different." That was informal, filling in the gaps from what Bucky could remember and what he wanted to remember.

The VA sessions were good whenever he could attend them. Not very regularly, or a lot; he was always more of a listener than a talker. But it felt liberating to know he wasn't alone.

"There are more specialists out there now." Your tone's shifted from the light one earlier this evening, but he's grateful it doesn't hold the same air of patronisation he's heard before. It's kind. "People who've been through similar things."

"Yeah," he says, chewing on his lip. "I know, but-"

He took the support group job on after Sam, hoping it'd help. Every session, the dull guilt of hypocrisy and the inevitability of someone calling him out on what he was-- a fraud. Trying to help others make sense of a world he couldn't, help them continue when he still hadn't figured out how to move on. A lie.

“They won't- they don’t understand. All they wanna do is take notes and try and figure out what's wrong. What if I don't want to know what's wrong?”

It's like a snap when he suddenly gets what it is, back in the doctor's couch with her opposite him. It's suffocating. He's suffocating.

He blinks hard, turning his head up to the sky.

Stars. There's a constellation hidden up there, but he doesn't know the name.

He could make a new constellation. For the way he can hear you breathing beside him and the spitfire warmth of the burnt-out logs. A constellation, and he'd name it after something you love. Rain on pavement, or videos of penguins falling over. For you and him, and the silence in the between and the words he can't distinguish the meaning for yet.

“Would it help if it wasn't, you know, that methodical?” you pipe up again. "Like talking to me, or to someone else who isn't taking notes."

He looks at you wearily. "Ain't that unethical?"

"What, talking to a friend?" You give him a smile. "No, I think we're within the laws on that one."

Steve's eyebrows upturn, and he waits for you to say something more.

"Not like therapy. Just-- anything. I won’t say anything. But you need to talk it out because I'm worried you're going to implode if you don't."

"I don't know what to say." Where to begin. How to begin. Who is he talking for? How does he do it right?

You look at him with no expectations, but a strong concern. Steve stays where he is, one hand holding a branch, one balanced on his knee.

"What do you want me to talk about?"

"Whatever you want," you promise. "I'd like to hear you talk about what you want to. Even if it's about the forties, or I don't know; the MET Gala or something."

"They invited me this year."

"Of course they did."

"Don't think I'm going."

"Had a hunch."

But something you said rings out to him, forcing him to reconsider.

Steve hesitates. "You want me to talk about the 40s?"

"If you want to," you reply. "Jus' don't want you to feel like you don't have anyone to talk to. Because I'm here, I wanna listen."

Steve chews on the inside of his bottom lip.

And surprisingly, it makes sense that it's all he wants to talk about.

Going to the past is comfortable. It's calm.

"Don't know if I can get it out," he says. "I'm tired."

"Of?"

Everything, really.

"It's been a long day."

"Well, let's get some rest then," you break the silence, offer him a kind smile.

You reach down to repack the uneaten food without another argument. The ball was in his court again, and he knows that eventually he'd have to rally it back. It wasn't fair; for you to keep trying and for him to offer nothing back.

So he says, "Ask me something. Anything."

You look up at him, and his lips slight upwards in encouragement. You let the bag drop back down.

"Okay," you pause, and decide on trying to keep it light for a start. "Tell me something good."

Something good.

Like what? His favourite childhood memory or the song he finally found whose two lines he had been singing to himself over and over in the past month? Something big, with bubbling laughter and strained voices, or small with subdued contentment and blush stained cheeks?

Almost like you can sense his trepidation, you add, "I can go first."

He agrees.

"I," you begin, almost like an announcement, "saw three cats yesterday."

His eyebrows furrow. "Where?"

"Near the museum."

"I didn't see them."

"That's 'cause you were in the gift shop."

"Oh."

"You know what?" You reach over to dig through the bag. "I actually got a picture. I thought you'd might wanna see."

A thorough look at three felines lazing around in the sun is enough to convince him that the small joys of the world have not, in fact, evaded him.

"Okay, your turn," you say after tucking your phone back.

He gives a small 'hmm' in response, head turned down as he thought.

"Tell me something good, Steve Rogers."

He shouldn't be finding it as hard as he does.

"I've always wanted a dog," he settles on. "When I was a kid, all I wanted was a dog."

"You didn't have any pets growing up?"

"Not really, just a lotta strays I used to find along the way." More like Steve sneaking out several hours in a day with his food wrapped in an old handkerchief to feed some new alley cat he noticed while getting beaten up. "Closest we got to keepin' one was this Labrador. Guess his owners couldn't handle an older one so they just drove over to our town and abandoned him."

"Fucking dickheads."

"Yeah." The corner of Steve's lips lift. "We found him near our house. Called him Champ."

"What was he like?" Your chin rests on your palm as you listen intently.

"Lived up to his name." Steve shrugs. "Ma made him a vest out of an old shirt. I wrote our names on the back."

The smile on your face is infectious. "How long did he stay with you?"

"Not long. Couldn't really afford to keep one, so we searched for anyone in the neighbourhood who could take care of him. He left in a couple of weeks."

He neglects to mention how he never saw him again. Broke his whole heart, it did.

You told him to tell you something good.

So he follows it up with, "Buck tried throwing him a stick to fetch and he just sat there. Never tried again."

"What a king."

Steve exhales out a laugh. "My mom got real mad when we both showed up covered in dirt every day."

"How do you manage to convert everyone you meet into a vagabond?" you tease and Steve just shrugs, mouth stretching down in cluelessness. ""Did he grow on your mom?"

"Oh, she loved him. Wouldn't ever admit it, but I knew she was upset when he left. I told myself I'd never get one after that 'cause I'd never seen her that sad before."

As if Sarah didn't know exactly what her son was up to when he stowed half his breakfast into his pocket and left in a hurry. As if she didn't make sure there was an extra portion that she knew he wouldn't be able to finish, even if it meant giving up half of hers.

"Well, I think she would have wanted you to have a dog if you could," you say. "Maybe you could name him Champ."

Steve's mind ruminates over it for a few seconds. "Yeah, maybe."

Because the truth is, she would. Of course she would. Even if he had asked back then, even if things were a little difficult, she'd have found a way to do it for him.

"There's this picture of her I used to carry around with me everywhere."

Your head motions towards him in question. "Your mom?"

"Yeah." It sat on his mantlepiece until now, where it was back in his wallet.

Her in a white sundress, smiling brightly with her eyes squinted to avoid the glare of the sun. It was before he was born, the laugh line hadn't fully formed yet and her face didn't hold the same suffering it did in the years to come. His favourite picture of her.

"I had it in my wallet the night Ultron happened, and in the middle of that mess, it tore." He still remembers staring at it in the kitchen, knees bent over broken glass. The growing hole of despair in his stomach reassures him that maybe if he looked at it long enough it'd go back to normal. Maybe if he sits there enough he'll realise it never happened in the first place and the nausea rising to his throat was just the adrenaline wearing off.

But the call comes and the group has to reconvene and the photo, torn and jagged, finds its way back into his wallet for another day.

"Do you still have it?" you ask quietly.

"I do, yeah." He nods. "Uh... Tony got it fixed. Called it a birthday present and made me swear to never mention it again."

In exchange for not telling him how he knew about the picture in the first place, managed to sneak into his wallet and restore it without Steve ever knowing it left at all.

Your eyebrows slightly furrow. "I didn't realise y'all were that close."

"We weren't." Not really, not as much as the publicity team pushed it anyway. "But we had our moments."

In another world, they could have been friends. Respect certainly. Admiration, even, to a certain degree.

"He's my friend."

"So was I."

Steve trusted him. Would agree without a doubt that he was one of the greatest minds of the century, if not ever.

But what follows him on nights he can't sleep and days he spends thinking of things that could have been differently, is that Tony thought of him as a friend. And Steve, he thought... co-workers, acquaintances even, but friends--

He snaps his attention to you. "You got anything good to tell me?"

"I finally got around to deep cleaning my house," you say and Steve lets out a low whistle. "Yeah, I know right? Threw out all the garbage, got some new succulents."

"Who's watering them while you're gone?"

You pause. "The cute neighbour down the hall."

Steve's mouth lifts. "Cute neighbour, huh?"

"You know the one. You've heard him play the banjo when you stayed over."

"The banjo guy's watering your succulents?"

"Now when you put it like that." Your eyes narrow, eyebrows wiggling.

He doesn't notice it at first-- but there is a lightness that's replaced some of the fog in his mind. It feels almost foreign, sacrilege to admit that he does feel... better. Not good. But better than he had been earlier.

"You and banjo guy, me and the cabin owner." Steve turns to the flame that was beginning to die out. "Who woulda thought?"

"Hottest double dates in town." You poke at his leg with your stick. "They're really more cacti than succulents, so he isn't going to be over too often."

"That's a damn shame." Steve cracks a smile.

"I know." You sigh loudly in mock despair. "He plays at the community centre on Saturdays, guy's got a whole cult following on TikTok. The kids love him."

Steve didn't really try to keep up with the trends but he wasn't unaware of them. His Twitter page was mostly active, often cited as one of the most influential political accounts out there. He could tell when certain trends set in by the way his mentions would blow up, or the way his following would increase drastically. Most times it was better not to check.

"You know," he muses, "there's a whole generation of kids that hate me 'cause of the high school fitness videos."

You turn to him incredulously. "The what?"

Steve shuts his mouth.

Additional scene #2

The office is muted. Beige, white, cream. It's professional but not cold. It's calculated.

There's a table behind the swivel chair Dr Nasser sits on, but he hasn't seen her using it to date.

He's practically memorised the whole layout.

"How was your week?" she asks, clipboard balanced neatly on her leg.

Her hair was thin and pushed back behind her ears, and glasses hung from a chain around her neck. She had to be a few years younger than him, thirties he thinks, and she's got a warm look in her eye.

Steve shrugs. "Same old. How was yours?"

"It was good," she replies like always before looking back down at her sheet. "What do you mean by same old?"

“Woke up, met with people, go back home." Rinse, wash, repeat.

“So the schedule hasn't changed at all in this last month.” She finally writes something. It's rare, he never really gives her a reason to note anything down. “How are we looking on the 'time for yourself' front?"

“Lunch breaks, the occasional weekend," Steve says, picking apart the fake fern in the corner of the room with his sight. "Sometimes I pretend I’m sick.”

She cracks a smile at that. His lips quirk upwards, fingers intertwining and releasing themselves.

"Any updates on the yoga, meditation... anything of that sort?"

“Can't say there is." There are seven leaves. Last time there were eight.

“Have you met any of your friends?”

“Whenever I can.” Steve moves on to the pot in the other end of the room,

The doctor doesn’t show any sign of agreement or disagreement with his method. Only clicks her pen before looking back up at him.

"Are you comfortable Steve?"

He adjusts in his seat slightly. "I am, yes."

"I mean, during our sessions," she corrects gently. "Are you comfortable during our sessions?"

There are nine leaves in that one. Funny, there were eight last week.

"I am," he replies, one arm crossed over his chest while the other rest on the armchair.

"I'm asking because you've been coming here for weeks now, Steve, and all we’ve discussed so far is the weather."

"Cloudy today, isn’t it?” He gives her a wry smile.

She gives him a unaffected one in return.

It's not her fault. She was just doing her job, and unfortunately, got stuck with the world's most emotionally constipated man.

“Why are you here, Captain?” Dr Nasser asks finally.

“You know why, doctor.” Steve's cheek leans on his fingers, leaving behind indents.

“It’s a part of your deal, I know,” she says, “but why are you here?”

Steve’s smile is tight. “What would you want to hear?”

She writes down something on her notepad. Steve's nose twitches.

“Your actual reason why you keep coming back,” she says when she looks back up again.

Steve's brows pull together lightly at her implication, though he has no idea what it actually is.

“Why do you think I keep coming here?” he asks again.

Her head tilts. “I could name plenty of reasons why, but that’s not the point. It has to come from you.”

Steve observes her the same way she does him. A little guilt springs up in him-- she's been trying and he hasn't at all.

He clears his throat, glancing down for a second before back up. “I was told it’s the only way they’d let me come in.”

“To help with the aftermath, you said?” she clarifies, looking at the three total lines she probably had on him.

"Yes,” he replies. “Relocation, search and rescue for people missing after the battle.”

“Right, the Battle of Earth.” Dr. Nasser writes something down. He follows the movement of her pen. “We haven't talked in too much detail about that.”

He doesn’t know what’s there to talk about. Everyone knew what had happened, the details were there in a public forum. Articles upon articles, documentaries upon documentaries had been made in the few months since it had gotten over, and they were still pouring in.

So Steve asks, “What would you like to know?”

“Your side of it,” she responds. "I could read about the battle anywhere. What I’m interested in is your side, how you’re dealing with it.”

Steve wants to smile bitterly at the fact that she only knows what they wanted everyone to know, but he couldn’t tell her that either.

"I deal with it just fine, I think," he says distantly.

"What do you mean by just fine?"

If this was what one on one therapy was like, it's a wonder why he doesn't care for it much.

"Well--" he blinks-- "I'm here, aren't I?"

"Are you happy?"

"About?"

"The win," she answers. "Sad? Angry? How do you feel about the team's success?"

A win? The words rest so disgustingly on his shoulders, the weight of a double-edged sword like everything else in his life.

He got the serum only to watch the closest person he had to a mentor die in his arms. He went down with the plane only to be pulled out in a year he didn’t belong in. He fought a civil war to lose his team, the War for the Stones only to lose half the fucking planet, the Battle of Earth only to lose friends who had become family. He fought and fought and fought and over the years, he started losing himself like sand slipping through his fingers.

Steve didn’t know what win was without the burden of loss. He didn’t know happiness without tragedy, and like mortality and death, they found themselves inseparable.

“We tried our best,” he says. “I don’t think it’s up to me to judge whether we succeeded or not.”

She looks at him with a strange sort of expression, like she's deciding what to make of what he said. Trying to decipher him, like he's some puzzle to be solved.

“If I’m being honest, Steve,” she begins, “from what you've told me, it doesn’t look like you’ve given yourself time to process what happened.”

He did process what had happened and look where it got him. Dreaming of people long gone and stolen cake in army convoys.

“I’m not sure what’s left to think about, doctor.” His voice is level, methodical.

A quick glance at the wall.

A note of the time.

The doctor’s head tilted slightly, staring intently at him. “Do you feel restless, Steve?”

All the fucking time, like an itch at the back of his throat he can’t get rid of.

“Sometimes.”

“And what do you do when you do feel that way?”

“Walk around. Park’s open pretty early. There’s a gym a few blocks away.”

“Physical activity- does it help?”

“It does the trick.”

“Are you restless now?”

His fingers stop tapping against his thigh, tongue in cheek and wry when he asks, “Who, me?”

Her smile returns with the realisation that it may not have been the smartest question, head turned down.

"Why do you think you're restless?"

A glance at the wall.

A note of the time.

"Been that way since I was a kid."

She shifts in her seat, picking up her pen again. Steve's realises it's the first time he's let anything about his past slip.

"Why were you restless as a child?"

His back is still stiff against the futon, and there's thirty minutes to go.

"Had places to go, things I wanted to do," he replies unclearly.

"What's changed since then?"

Well, nothing, really. There were still places to go and things to do and to a certain degree he did want to do them. The rest was...

"My mom's not there to lock the door so I don't walk out at three in the morning."

The corner of her lip tugs up. "How old were you?"

"Seven? Maybe eight." Steve squints.

Either way, he started climbing out the window after that, so it wasn't like he was trapped.

"Where did seven year old you go at three in the morning?"

"Hung out with this neighbour kid of mine on the roof sometimes." Steve shrugs. "If it was during the day I'd go down to the store and spend a couple of hours."

"You'd spend hours at the... grocery store?" she asks, trying to clarify.

"There was a guy there I liked. He always thought I was annoying but he let me stick around." Steve smiles briefly, letting his other arm cross over his chest.

Other times-- most times-- it was with Bucky, who'd also climbed out on his fire escape to silence Steve's incessant rock throwing at his window. They didn't really have any place to go, so they did as any fifteen year old would do; jumped over the gate and into the park to skip some stones across the pond.

Steve's mind sharply wipes away the memory and his focus snaps back to the lady before him, one leg crossed over the other, arms resting on them.

She's already looking at him. He genuinely hopes he wasn't staring at her when he zoned out.

"You know, Steve," she pipes up when he doesn't say anything, "I don't know a whole lot about you even though this is our fifth session."

He exhales deeply through his nose, but his gaze is unwavering.

"But--" she looks down at the paper-- "this is the first time your answers don't seem so calculated."

Steve doesn't have any comment. He watches her twist to put aside the notepad on the table behind her.

"What does talking about the past make you feel?"

"At home."

Her eyebrows quirk up in the slightest, like she didn't expect an answer from him so soon.

"Feels familiar," he says further.

"Easy?" she offers.

He nods.

A glance at the wall.

A note of the time.

"Do you feel more connected to the past than you do with the present?"

Steve wants to get up and leave. There's still seventeen minutes to go.

"I don't know," he replies stiffly.

And just like that it's over.

There is tension in the air, mainly from his side because he knows to her, this had to be a breakthrough.

She reaches behind her to pick up the note pad again, clicking the pen against her thigh as she writes something down. Steve can feel a twinge of annoyance in him.

She finishes scribbling something. He can see she's halfway down the paper already.

"How do you feel about a little homework, Steve?"

Steve's eyes flick down to her notes and back up at her. “Haven’t really done any in the last century or so.”

"It's a small task," she explains, "just to let you embrace that part of you fully before we go forward."

Steve raises an eyebrow.

"Let's do this, shall we? Why don't you create a list of things that remind you of the past?"

"What kind of list?" His voice is a lot rougher than it had been a moment ago.

"Could be anything. List of people, places, things. If you wanna bring it in here next session too, that'd be great." She flashes him a kind smile. "What do you think?"

He thinks he's dug himself a grave here. He was having trouble enough as it was. He could already feel his mind slip past his tight grip and into a spiral.

"I'll try, I guess," he replies almost robotically.

It seems to satisfy her, though. He can tell from the look in her eyes that she’s only the littlest bit exhilarated at the crack in his shell.

“That was a lot, Steve,” she notes, leaning back slightly. “How are you feeling?”

A glance at the wall.

A note of the time.

"I feel fine," he says.

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