the undefining of steve rogers (stucky)

one

lonely: the concept of having nothing and no one in all the world. staying home every night. ordering chinese instead of cooking. watching ellen reruns at three in the morning and telling yourself you're safe safe safe.

it's the future. loneliness hasn't gotten any easier. it's still a hollow aching in between your ribs, clawing up at a place that used to have a heart. steve rogers is struggling to breathe in this hollow world. he tries to find home, a tiny apartment in brooklyn that isn't home at all.

home is a water stain on the ceiling, from when mrs. robinson upstairs dropped a pot of boiling water. home is a suit with fraying ends, an ugly shade of brown from the thrift shop downtown. home is the lines in bucky barnes' palm, the warmth that always rests in between his fingers. home is steve's eyes, closed, his head resting on bucky's chest, counting the gentle rises and falls.

it's the future. steve doesn't know what the definition of home is.

natasha got him a dictionary for his 99th birthday. it's a joke, she had laughed. you don't know any modern day words. you need a dictionary.

steve didn't laugh. sometimes he thinks he does need a dictionary. one that will tell him what friendship in the 21st century is, something that will tell him what safety is, what peace is. he was born during world war one. he grew up during the great depression. he fought in world war two.

and now it was the 21st century, and he had traded nazis for aliens, and the howling commandos for the avengers. but that didn't make it any less of a war. safety didn't exist anymore. neither did peace.

they say that safety was the avengers, being guardians over the world. the superheroes, who risk their lives for everyone else. who fight the battles that they never could. they say that safety is a sheet of armor around the world, stopping casualties before they even start.

but who protects the superheroes? how can they ever be safe if they're the ones protecting everyone?

steve rogers is synonymous with captain america which is synonymous with freedom which is synonymous with safety. but steve rogers isn't safe.

there are guns in his head. the arctic ocean, thick with the remains of planes and ships, rests behind the blue of his eyes. the blush of his cheeks tastes like ash from firebombs. his fingers tremble, as if all they know is how to hold a shield and a gun.

every grocery story is a battlefield. he registers each aisle like a trench, each shopping cart like its a tank. one time someone snapped a picture of him, and the flash went off, and he ducked and covered his head and shoved his shopping cart towards her and it flipped over and it spilled its contents everywhere and steve was shaking and he had to protect his men and and and -

safety: being in someone's arms after a long day. a shield. a gun in his hand. whispers in an empty apartment, keeping your gasps quiet so the neighbors don't hear. closing your eyes (you know you are guarded, you know you can sleep). seatbelts on roller coasters. cars. trains.

s-a-f-e-t-y. steve writes the word with his finger, tracing the letters on the wooden table. it's a stupid fucking metaphor, that he's not using a pencil, and he can't see it. he slams his fist on the table as if to erase the word, and the fork slides off of his plate. no one else is in the apartment. no one cares.

he misses bucky. bucky always cared when he dropped a plate and it shattered. stay right there don't move you'll cut yourself on the shards dammit steve i said stay still - he can hear the echoes so well.

he's circled back to loneliness. it feels like he has nothing left to think about but how lonely he is. how empty the space next to him feels. he keeps looking over with the ends of a joke on his lips and there's no one left who will listen.

it's only noon, and the future hurts. he doesn't want to do this anymore. steve goes back to bed.