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Steve doesn't like the word depressed. He thinks it’s too definite, too solid. He doesn't like the word sad either; it’s too vague, too open. Though he often hears these words in conjunction with himself; ‘Do you think he’s sad? Do you think he misses how things used to be?’ hushed voices passing in the street. ‘Isn't that Captain America? He looks depressed. I hope he’s okay’ whispered over newspapers on the train. He doesn't mean to eavesdrop, but he can’t help it. Before the serum he had gotten used to straining to hear what was going on around him, now that his earshot is super human… well, old habits die hard, after all.
He was sad, yes. Depressed? Maybe. But he tried to use adjectives as little as possible when it came to himself. He knew it would be no good to pine for his old life, whatever that meant, and he was thrilled to be living in the future- well, present. Feels like the future. A science fiction novel, only better. And this new time is better; a bit more equality, better food, impressive technology (though he often laughs about the lack of flying cars Howard was convinced would be the norm by now).
He was frequently stunned (and fairly irritated) by the fact that nearly everybody he came across had something to say about his life. His old life, his new life, his life before the war. No one ever got everything exactly right, and he didn't have the mind the correct them. He was a chapter in the standard fourth grade curriculum, people wrote reports about the Great Captain America and the Howling Commandos, health students speculated how he managed to stay alive before the serum with all his ailments (‘they should do a study on determination and stubbornness’ Sam teased). Yet no matter what the history books or the documentaries said, there were always things left out, nuances that couldn't quite be translated for today’s audience, and Steve was glad for that. His past might be public domain, but he liked to keep some autonomy over his personhood.
“Ughhh!” Steve groaned into his pillow, turning over and pulling his blanket over his head. He didn't know how long he had been in bed, but it was nights like this, when he couldn't will his mind to be quiet, that he wished something big would happen just so he didn't have to lay down with his own thoughts to keep him awake. Though he knew ‘something big’ would probably mean people getting hurt and quickly dismissed the notion, reprimanding himself for even thinking it.
The trail for Bucky had quickly gone dry. Natasha said if he didn't want to be found, he wouldn't be found, and maybe she was right. They decided to lay off a bit, maybe he’ll come back on his own (‘He’s not a puppy, Natasha, it doesn't work that way.’ ‘Steve, I know what he’s going through, trust me. Quit looking and perhaps you’ll find him. And next time put him on a leash.’) Then there was the whole SHIELD thing. No SHIELD meant no missions, no missions meant way too much down time.
Okay, brain, that’s enough of that. Steve threw the blanket onto the floor, pillow following perhaps a little too forcefully. Elbows resting on his knees, face cradled in his hands he counted to ten and took a couple deep breaths before getting up and opening the window. It was the first night of autumn but the air was still warm like summer. He stood there for a minute, mindlessly watching the curtains sway in the breeze, before climbing out and taking the fire escape stairs three at a time to the roof.
He must have lain awake a lot longer than he realized because the sky to the east was starting to show the first signs of dawn. Barefoot, in nothing but thin sweat pants and a t-shirt he sat down on the gravel rooftop to watch the skyline. When the search for Bucky had gone cold he moved back to New York. DC just didn't feel right anymore; SHIELD was gone, even Peggy had passed… There was more to do in New York, more to keep his time and his mind occupied. Avengers stuff (whatever that means) and any spare time spent volunteering at the VA in Brooklyn with Sam.
“I didn't know you smoked.” A familiar voice pierced the silence. Sam had insisted on moving to New York with Steve. (‘Naw man, you’re a grown ass dude. I’m not moving there to keep an eye on you, I’m moving there to get a change of scenery, y’know?’) Steve knew that wasn't completely true, and he was secretly glad to have along someone he could trust.
“I don’t.” Steve lied, taking one last hit off the half gone cigarette before putting it out in an ashtray he kept stashed up here for nights – mornings – like this one.
“Those things’ll give you cancer, y’know.” Sam sat down next to him, pushing the ashtray and pack of cigarettes as far away from him and Steve as his arms could reach.
“Will they?” Steve arched his eyebrow and half smirked.
“Maybe not you exactly, but... Whatever man. They’re gross.”
“Y’know I used to smoke all the time?” Steve recalled, “They were asthma cigarettes. I don’t know if they actually helped the asthma or not but I thought they made me look cool.”
“Your time was weird, dude.”
“Yeah, I know.” Steve gave a half-hearted, but genuine, laugh.
They sat in silence for a minute as the sun crept over the horizon.
“Well, I was gonna’ see if you wanted to go for a run this morning but by the looks of it you haven’t gotten any sleep in a while.” Sam stood up, dusting off his running shorts.
“Hey, watch it.”
“I just call ‘em like I see ‘em, man. Superhero or not you have to sleep sometimes… I think. Or does your face always look like that?”
“I’m fine.” Steve insisted. “I’ll go for a run, just give me a minute to change.”
They climbed through the open window into Steve’s apartment. Sam noticed the mess of sheets and pillows on the floor next to the bed but decided not to say anything. Hurriedly walking past into the kitchen to help himself to some orange juice only to find an empty carton in the refrigerator.
“Steve, you need to go to the store, you’re all out of OJ!” he called to his friend tossing the empty container into the recycling. “And what’s all this green stuff? Is that… Kale? Why are you eating Kale? Big ass super soldier eating Kale… what’s the fun of having your metabolism if you’re just going to eat vegetables… Steve?”
No response from the bedroom where Sam had left him to change.
“Steve, where’d you go? Hello?” he pushed on the slightly ajar door to find Steve sitting on the edge of his bed glaring at his sneakers. “You okay?”
“What?” Steve shook his head, coming out of his reverie.
“Did you forget how to tie your shoes?”
“Oh, yeah.” Steve quickly got back to putting his socks on.
“You sure you okay?”
“I’m fine, Sam.”
“I know you’re fine, but are you okay?” Sam pressed, “Because you don’t sleep, you sneak cigarettes, you have way too much kale in your refrigerator.”
“Let’s just go for a run. I just want to keep busy is all.” Steve grabbed his keys and headed for the door.
“I get it, I do. Trust me. And we’ll go for a run,” Sam tailed to the hall, “But I really think you should talk to someone, man. Work through some of this stuff.”
“Come on, man, just drop it.” Steve sighed “Learning colors at the age of 20 was easier than talking to some stranger.”
“Wait, what?” Sam couldn't help but smile “All that shit wrong with you as a kid and you were colorblind too? Damn!”
“I know, right?” Steve chuckled.
“But seriously. Steve you look like hell. I’m not going to force you to do anything, but you should do something.”
“…I’ll think about it.” Steve locked the door behind them. “If it’ll get you to shut up.”
“I’ll shut up.” Sam decided to let the topic go. It was slow going with Steve, but he knew better than most what he was going through. Any little bit he could coax out of the man was a victory.
Maybe Sam is right, Steve thought as they sprinted down the stairs to warm up. Talking to him helps a bit. Sam was good, Steve knew, at trying to cajole him into opening up, which worked. And in this moment he was glad to have him there. It was nice to have a rock to steady him, to remind him that he’s not okay, but that it’s okay to not be okay.