Work Text:
It wasn’t morning, it was early in the afternoon, another night of rough sleep. In truth, Steve had only slept three hours, but he was used to it by now, used to the aches on his body despite the comfortable, warm bed he was in. He stretched his arms, and sat slouched for a moment, looking out the window at the day that’d begun without him.
I should set an alarm, he thought. He wouldn’t remember that later.
Steve made half of his bed and opened one side of the closet and pulled out clothes for the day, he showered, mostly letting the water hit him. He liked it icy, sometimes it hurt, but the pain was better than nothing. Most of the day he felt nothing, little more than shame and survivor’s guilt. It was hard not to live neck deep in it. He saw Bucky fall. He didn’t see--
It felt like a different world, again. The world before the one before went away while he was sleeping. He was awake to see this new one born, terrible and barren, the old one ripped from his hands. Crying was useless. What would tears do for his friends? What would they do for--
Thor’s heavy footsteps were dragging like a gravedigger with no graves to dig. The hallways were silent except for occasional conversation and sound of the god’s weeping. Steve wondered if he could say anything to him, he couldn’t think of anything that would help. They’d both lost friends, family, lovers.
The motions of the day went on as if they were all riding a conveyor belt. Steve made coffee, black. It was bitter and hard to swallow but the creamer had his name written on it. He wasn’t here to say not to use his creamer, give him a cheeky gap toothed smile, crack a joke about how he didn’t have anything of his own on the compound, not even his own bed. Steve chuckled at the thought of it, but that’s all he had, the thought of it. The thought of him.
It would be one of those days. Most days he could go through it with the thought of him pushed down, but some days it would sit under his skin like water about to spill from the side of a bowl.
If he could just hold it in his chest a bit longer, it would all be okay, it wouldn’t burst out of him. Maybe if he did let it burst, it would be enough to stop his heart, that would be nice. He’d prefer this broken heart killed him rather than force him to feel every ache he’d managed to suppress for the years since being thawed out. Aches he didn’t even think about once he met--
He scratched at his beard and was taken back to a scene that felt like it’d happened decades ago in front of a dirty motel mirror. He was still with his love then. Not exactly happy, it was hard to be happy in their predicament, but it was hard to feel awful. He felt his lover’s warm hands trace over his chest, his head leaned on his shoulder. God, those bright brown eyes, what he would’ve done for them.
“You should keep the beard.”
Steve smirked. “You sure about that?”
“More than sure.” A knuckle traced over the rough hair. “A little beard butter and a shape up and you’ll be fine, baby. Don’t worry.”
“Beard butter?”
The comment was met with an eye roll. “Steve, when we get back to society you’re going to actual therapy and a spa.” They laughed. In Steve’s memory, the laugh was muffled. No replication matched the real thing, it wasn’t worth trying. “This won’t be too much longer.”
“You believe that.”
“Shit, I have to believe something.”
They shared a kiss, a slow kiss. Steve could still feel his warm lips pressed to his. The taste of him, toothpaste and coffee, familiar and staining his tongue. When Steve pulled away, he looked into his lover’s eyes and thought about how lucky he was to have been in the right place, at the right time that day they met. What he wouldn’t give to go back to that day and start all over with him.
“I believe in you, don’t I?”
“Steve!” But it wasn’t his voice, it was Natasha’s. Steve’s world became gray-scale again. He looked down at the coffee spilling on the floor and jumped into action. Natasha moved him out of way and picked up the shattered mug. “Go outside, get some fresh air.”
He shook his head and went back to his room, storming past Bruce, who didn’t even have a chance to ask him if everything was alright. He rushed into his bathroom and ran warm water in the bathroom sink. All thoughts felt like afterthoughts as he grabbed his razor and shaving cream, one hand still bracing himself when it felt like his legs wouldn’t hold him anymore. He needed it off. He needed all of it off.
It wasn’t worth having reminders of Sam when Sam wasn’t around, that was worse torture than knowing Sam turned to ash alone. Knowing Sam didn’t hear Rhodey call out his name. Sam was gone, and for now it looked like Sam wasn’t coming back.
When the beard was shaved clean off, Steve reached for his face with trembling hands. That pressure still sat in his chest, waiting for the next meltdown. It would be worse next time. This was the new world. It was nothing without Sam.