Mister Rogers ⍟ || Steve Rogers

21

The warehouse was gone—no crates, no hallways, no staircases. In their place stood a packed stadium: the Stanford gymnasium. Every seat was filled, the air vibrating with the roar of a crowd that pressed in on all sides.

I turned, and a volleyball was rolled to me. I picked it up and bounced it a couple of times cautiously. I tossed it back and forth between my hands, the familiar texture grounding me even with my quickening pulse.

"At the service line stands #4, Addyson Jones, Stanford's freshman libero. Stanford has a match point to advance to the semifinals!" rang the commentator's voice.

I looked down and realized I was no longer in my suit. Instead, I wore my old Stanford volleyball uniform: a white long-sleeve jersey with cardinal red detailing and matching red spandex.

My name rippled through the stands. My teammates' faces glowed with excitement, their voices overlapping as they called out to me.

"Come on, Addy. Let's win this!"

"We're so close--end it!"

Even my coach wore a rare smile, mouthing, You can do this.

My body moved with a mind of its own, positioning my feet in my habitual stance.  I tapped my right foot once against the floor, then shuffled forward. I tossed the ball, and my palm met it cleanly in the air.

It felt so natural. Unsettlingly effortless.

The ball soared over the net with ease. On the other side, two UCLA players collided in a desperate attempt to receive it. The whistle sounded. We won.

Screams sounded. White and red confetti fell from the ceiling. Arms outstretched, my team rushed over to me, some of them even crying. 

Ivy broke from the pack, making a beeline for me—

And then she was gone. Everyone was gone.

The confetti vanished midair. The crowd fell silent. I stood alone in the empty gym, the vastness pressing in around me.

Footsteps approached me from behind. I turned.

"Isn't this what you wanted?"

My father stood before me. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.

"Isn't this what you wanted?" he asked again, smiling. "A fresh start? You did it, baby. Let's go home."

I squeezed my eyes shut. It's not real. I tried to carve the thought into my mind.

Hands clamped onto my shoulders tightly. "Isn't this what you wanted?" he shouted this time, breath hot against my face. "To go home? Like nothing ever happened?"

A beat passed. Then, his voice dropped, warped, and no longer his own.

"You. Can't. Go. Back."

I forced myself to open my eyes, meeting his own. They were bloodshot, veins spidering across the whites. His pupils were blown wide, unfocused, blind.

I flinched at first. Then, my gaze softened. I reached out, brushing the back of my hand against my dear father's cheek gently. I could only muster a mere whisper.

"I'm sorry."

-

"The news is loving you guys. Nobody else is," Maria Hill half-heartedly joked from the radio, though no one was responsive.

The Maximoff girl was able to access memory by simple noise. She found the trigger, she yanked it, succeeding in reminding me of my own nightmare.

Most of the team was shaken badly. I sat digging my palms into my eyes; Steve was seated nearby with his back to me; across from him, Natasha had not moved her stare from the floor; Thor paced the Quinjet slowly, the fidgeting of his hands not going unnoticed.