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When Steve was little, he never felt lonely. He didn’t feel the weight of his sorrow laying heavily on his chest, nor did he ever question the intentions of those around him. His ignorant bliss only lasted till he was about 12, when he started to get the hint. It was only small instances, in fact, he would never have viewed these childhood moments as ‘lonely’ had he not tried to search for a time where he wasn’t isolated.
He was 12 when he realized that his ‘friends’ at school weren’t busy every weekend or after school. They just didn’t want to be around someone as sickly and weak as him. It was fine, though, because he still had his Ma and he still had Bucky. Bucky would sit with him when he was sick or in the doctors, and would lay outside his window when he was contagious. He always tried to help Steve make friends or meet girls, and while the inevitable rejections always hurt, he was still touched by the thought. Not to mention his wonderful Ma. His Da had passed away before he was born, leaving his Ma with a newborn baby in a new country all alone.
Sarah Rogers always tried her best. She cooked and cleaned and supported the family and helped her sick son. She sang him lullabies from Ireland, her home country, when fever or pneumonia plagued him, even when she was holding back tears because they both thought he was going to die. They were poor, he was sick, and she was a single mother. Still, she always managed. She was truly a gift, and Steve will never forget his mother. Meanwhile, Bucky started working, helping support his sisters and his parents and tried scraping by in the Great Depression as best they could. He and Steve couldn’t see eachother often, and it was just another harsh reminder that his sickness would never allow him to help his Ma with money or at least contribute something to anything.
Those little moments, the moments where he was too sick to stand, Bucky was off supporting his family, and his Ma came home from work looking and most definitely feeling hopeless and despaired were some of the worst moments of his life. But Bucky always said it was okay. That Steve’s smarts would eventually outweigh his sickness and he and his Ma would be rolling in cash in the future. Steve knew it wasn’t true, that he was probably going to die before Bucky and his Ma and that it would be a financial weight lifted off their shoulders, but it was still nice to hear.
That was his one consolation. That Sarah Rogers would die free from the shackles that his weak, skinny, failure of a body put on her. That he would die soon, and his Ma would live out the rest of her days unburdened. She wouldn’t have to support him and his illnesses anymore. His Ma would die in peace and..and–
And then his Ma died.
His Ma died and he had no more family and Bucky was offering to support him and he couldn’t say yes because Bucky had three little siblings and two parents and he can’t be a burden to anyone else. All he had left was Bucky. No family, no friends, just Bucky and his isolation. His loneliness. Everytime he was with Bucky, his loneliness seemed to be held at bay. He was like an umbrella in the rain, a coat in the cold. But Bucky had responsibilities. Responsibilities that took priority over Steve.
Whenever it was time for Bucky to leave, whenever he turned his back to start walking home or stopped looking at him through the window of the subway, it felt like Steve's throat was being crushed by a python. That familiar squeeze around his throat, the prickle in his eyes and the pang in his chest was Steve putting the umbrella away. Taking off the coat. His loneliness never hit him more than when he was walking back home alone, knowing he would arrive at an empty apartment lacking any of his family. It only got worse when Bucky enlisted. Mainly because he was really alone. He didn’t have the luxury of a distraction. Not to mention, it was a reminder that he was just too useless to truly help anywhere. His help wasn’t wanted and he had nobody at home that wanted him.
The serum was a godsend.
He was finally able to make something out of himself. He was no longer just a lump of dead weight, but rather a useful tool that was instrumental in the defeat of HYDRA. Of course, in the beginning people didn’t see it that way, with him being shoved on stage. Still, he was glad to be of use. But no matter where he went or what he did he was always treated like an alien. He was the cool little show monkey that was just taking the credit for what real soldiers did out in the field. He was either a successful experiment or a cartoon character to those who viewed him highly, and a fraud to those who didn’t. It was isolating, but nothing he hadn’t gone through before. He just numbed himself to it, and when he didn’t linger on his thoughts too long, it didn’t bother him. Plus, he had Peggy, and Peggy treated him like a person. For the first time in his life, things were really starting to look up. And not just in regards to his status and physical health, but also his mental health.
Peggy, Bucky and the Howlies were the first times where he didn’t feel alone. He felt accepted. More than that, he felt like he belonged. Like he had a place, like he was wanted. Ironically, the midst of war and fighting was where he felt the least alone. He was happy, until he got the rug pulled out from underneath him again.
Bucky was dead.
He couldn’t even get drunk. He couldn’t even forget. In the moment, it felt like his heart was getting ripped out. Like he was useless, not being able to save even Bucky. His throat was perpetually constricted, he sobbed until he couldn’t breathe everytime he was alone. He was a husk in front of other people and he vomited five times a day. He felt the need to burst into tears if he thought about anything other than strategy and fighting for more than a second. It was like someone had squeezed his heart, pulled it out through his throat and then added it to a blender with his brain, before blending them together and pouring them back in. If he were to look back on it, he wouldn’t remember it. It would be like one big blurry haze that resembled a hallucination or a somewhat vivid dream more than a memory. Still, when he was in that plane in the arctic, he knew he didn’t want to try and survive.
Maybe he could give Howard his coordinates and by some miracle he intercepts Steve on time. Maybe he could jump out of the plane and maybe he’d survive. Maybe he could, maybe he couldn’t. But Steve knew Howard wouldn’t be able to get to him in time, and he knew that if he jumped out, he would have a brutal survival journey ahead of him. He knew that the only way he could make it out alive was if he gave everything he had into survival, if he exhausted himself and pushed himself to the very limit. But that was the problem, he’d already exhausted himself. He exhausted himself on his self loathing and sickness, his loneliness, his loss and grief. He’d given so much, how could he give more? He loved Peggy. He wanted to marry her when the war was done. He wanted to live out life with her. But if he chose to live, would he really be coming back to her the same? Or would she be trying to make it work with a husk of what had been. No, losing someone who was right in front of you was worse than losing them all together. Better make it a clean break. He’d miss the Howlies, too. But they’d move on. Sure, they would be sad, but they would live.
He could just…let go.
…
..
.
.
Waking up 70 years in the future was probably the worst outcome he could have ever imagined.
If he thought he knew lonely, he was wrong. His loneliness before was a dull ache that he held. A weight that occasionally got the better of him. But this? This loneliness was just a smack in the face. He was in a new world. He didn’t belong, and everyone around him knew it. Who was around him? The Avengers, though nice, didn’t view him as a person. In fact, most people in this day and age didn’t. 70 years of propaganda had taken place while he was under, and now, everyone saw him as the caricature persona that was all ‘Apple Pie!’ and ‘Glory to the USA!’. No one bothered to wonder if there was something else under all of that. If Steve was anything more than a traditional, virgin, white, straight, conservative, sexist, asshole. They saw a version of him that was built up on decades of mythos, most of which wasn’t even based on fact. No one wondered for even a second if maybe, just maybe, there was more to Steve than what they read about in school.
It didn’t even matter, though. Because no one spoke to him unless strictly necessary. After the alien invasion, the Avengers parted ways. So, naturally, no one spoke to him. It was sad to admit, but they’d been some of the only people he’d spent that much time with in this new century. And what was worse was that he hadn’t even spent that much time with them. He just spoke to nobody, ever. He had no one in this century, not even an acquaintance, and for the first time in a long time, he felt utterly trapped.
So there he was, in his apartment (SHIELD issued, so it was probably bugged), on the floor and leaning against the wall, with his eyes shut. He’d been thinking about his life, which he usually tries to avoid. His pants were pulled down, and he looks at the bright red slashes he’s made on his thighs. He’d wanted to feel something other than loneliness for a while now, this was his best solution. But as he put his blade down and ran his hand through the blood collecting on his thighs, he realized something. Cutting couldn’t be his permanent solution, because no matter how many ups he had, how many new opportunities he was given and new people he met, he was destined to be alone.
Destined to wallow in his isolation.