Chapter Text
No one looked at Steve. No one thought to look at perfect Steve Rogers. The words slipped from Bruce’s mouth in the heat of the moment...
“...I know, I’ve tried...”
Everyone looked to Bruce, shock written on their faces. How could this have happened? They would all ask when the whole problem blew over. When everyone was safe and the words had time to sink in and appear in their subconsciousness. When they were falling asleep and all of a sudden think ‘remember that time...?’ When the meaning has had time to set in and they truly understand. One by one they started to act. They gave the odd kind word or check in, ‘Hey, Bruce, how’s your day going?’ or ‘Hey, Bruce, what’s that machine do?’ They look after him. They look after Bruce because he’s family. Because he matters. Because he is hurting.
Steve can’t help but feel bitter. No one looks at him.
Afterwards, everyone looked at Tony. Tony, whose face didn’t just show shock but understanding, a look of someone who knows what it’s like to want to... to... You know. Everyone looked to him as he drove a missile into a hole in the sky without warrant. Because everyone cared about him. Tony was a friend, in the end- not counting the arguments. Tony had a reason- a shit childhood, even worse parents on top. Money couldn’t buy you love. It was Steve’s fault in the end, too. If he hadn’t been so goddamn reckless...
Steve can’t help but feel like he deserves this. No one looks at him.
Afterwards, no one looks at Steve. No one thinks to look at perfect Steve Rogers. Steve, the man who can have no faults. Steve, the pillar of the group. People look at him and see a face representing freedom and all things American. No one sees the haunted eyes. No one sees the nightmares. No one sees Steve Rogers. No one looks. They only see Captain America.
Afterwards, when they look to him, not at him, they see his look of understanding and take it for a look of a man has lost someone to themselves. They see the look of a man who has seen too much. They do not see, however, the burning sense of similarity. The fiery feeling of same. They do not see a man who knows what it’s like to want closure and to find none. They do not see a man who knows what it’s like to lie awake at night and want to... to... You know?
To not feel.
Afterwards, when they think back, his face does not stick in their minds as they fill their days up with kind words for Bruce and check-ups for Tony. They don’t have time for Steve. Steve’s not wanted. Steve’s not needed. The others- They’ve had worse than him. He hears the night terrors and sees the look in their eyes. He looks at them and sees what they miss in him. Because nothing can be wrong with perfect Steve Rogers.
Steve understands. No one looks at him.
Maybe that’s why. Why he is here, sitting up at 2 in the morning with a loaded gun to his head because he sure as hell isn’t going to take any risks this time. He refuses to make the same mistake this time- he doesn’t want a repeat of the Valkyrie. The feeling of his lungs slowly filling up with biting cold water as he tries to claw his way out of his self-made death involuntarily. He shuts his eyes. The sting of copper on his knuckles where cuts struggle to close themselves up around the shards of glass stuck in them from the smashed mirror that was once hung on the wall. He freezes for a second, he thinks he hears a noise. Hope swells in his chest that maybe, just maybe someone will look, will see. Nothing. There’s an ache in his chest, that settles in and crushes his lungs. He takes a deep breath in-
It’s his last, but still, no one looks.