Work Text:
Sometimes, he wakes up and sits upright in his bed and looks at the wall. Other times, he lays there for hours and stares at the ceiling or the clock. A few times he rises from bed, dresses himself and goes for a walk.
He thinks of her and looks at the stars, recalling the last thing he could remember before he awoke in the fake hospital room. How cold it had become, how easily it was to finally close his eyes and accept the cold. He remembered how he had tried the radio one more time, even though he knew it was no use. He spoke to an empty control room saying how he wished he'd done more with her; told her how he really felt. As he walked past stores that have long been closed yet he could recall when they were in operation, he thought of what he would tell his best friend and wished his memory would forget how his best friend...
Steve shoves his hand in his pockets and walks with his eyes on his feet. He remembers the "hospital" room and hearing the fake baseball game. For a split second he honestly thought he had been saved. Then, he'd heard the score, the play, then he had known. He did in fact not survive his crash. He was not home, he was in every way not safe.
He would often stop at the diner he and his best friend would attempt to pick up dames at. Sit in the same booth and order a coffee. The coffee was not what he'd always get, it was a new always for him. Just like everything else. A black president, these items that you don't have to say anything to to talk to someone nowhere near you, and no juke boxes. Steve would sit and look out the blinds, watching the minimal traffic pass the diner. Sipping his coffee, he would again recall the time he knew and compare it to now.
Today had superheros, whatever wifi is, color televisions, and multiple items that emit enough light to tan by. His "today" was land lines, black and white televisions that cut off at midnight, and him. Himself. Only he; he was the only superhero, ever. Now there were new things to understand, knew things that didn't make any sense.
He would pay for his coffee and return home a few hours after he'd arose, remove his clothing and return to his sheets. Steve would choke back tears, struggling to hold them in. He would continue to stare at his ceiling, or out the window, or watch late night tv. He would take deep breaths, and sputter three words with two people in mind. There were only two people in his heart still today that he could never let go of. Both helped him to where he is now, both not present to help him any longer.
As his chest would heave and his eyes struggle to hold back his cries, he would murmur three simple words; to his first love and his best friend.