Stay ➣Romanogers

Chapter 7: Running Away

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Okay, so a couple warnings on this chapter. Big warning for scenes of torture and graphic violence. Also warnings for some heavy material in this chapter concerning Steve's state of mind.

There are times when Steve can hardly stand himself. It's not as bad as it used to be. When he first woke up down in DC at Walter Reed, he had a serious bout of depression. He was angry that he lived through it all, angry that he survived, angry that he came out on the other side unable to walk and with a brain that's going to be dead set on ruining him for the rest of his life. At the time, he hated himself, plain and simple, and it was hard because he never used to be that way. He used to be optimistic, bright-eyed, light and hopeful. All the sudden he wasn't anymore. Still, he got over the worst of the depression and applied himself to getting back what he could of his life. He got himself back on his feet. Made new friends and moved back home. Dealt with it. That was what his mother always told him before she died. "No matter what, Steven, you get back up."

He's so fucking tired. And angry. Doctor Banner can always tell. There's no hiding anything from him. Steve supposes that's Banner's job, figuring out what his patients don't want to tell him and then devising a way to make them tell him as if the act of confessing emotions is enough to soothe those emotions away. Like healing can be so easy. Nothing's easy.

This is their usual Thursday session, and they're sitting in Banner's office. It's a nice one, attached to the VA Hospital in Brooklyn. Steve's spent a lot of time here, so he knows what it looks like in his sleep. It's down in the lower part of the building, walls made of nicely and brightly painted cinder blocks. You can see through a window at the top of the room to the outdoor walkways outside, and it's a very nice summer day. Against that wall there's a couch, but Steve doesn't usually sit there no matter how many times Banner says it's okay. In front of the couch there's a coffee table that always has flowers on it, flowers and a box of tissues. Then there are the two chairs, comfortable leather ones that scream Ethan Allen. He's pretty sure they're missionary style? He doesn't know a thing about furniture. Anyway, this is where they always sit, where he's sitting now. Doctor Banner's right across from him dressed in olive green slacks, a lighter green dress shirt, and a yellowish tie. He wears a lot of green. His glasses catch the fluorescent light as he stares at Steve with his pad and folders on lap and his legs crossed. His salt and pepper hair's always a little unruly, but he's clean shaven and well-groomed otherwise.

Unlike Steve. Steve who threw on yesterday's jeans and a wrinkled gray t-shirt and hardly managed a shower that morning, let alone trimming up his beard and making himself look less like complete shit. The seizure did a fucking number on him. He's still feeling it days later. It was a really bad one, the worst he's had in months, and even though Doctor Erskine and his team of neurologists keep trying to avoid using the term "setback" every time they talk to him, Steve knows what it is. A massive setback. They're switching his meds again, trying to come up with a new magic potion to make this problem go away. It's not going away.

And Banner wonders why he's upset. "You seem very frustrated today, Steve," he says, staring at Steve with those cool, perceptive eyes of his. They're ten minutes into this session, and so far Steve hasn't said a thing. He's being difficult and he knows it and he probably should have felt bad about it but he doesn't. He's never been the easiest patient for Banner, and he knows that, too. It took a couple weeks of sessions for him even to accept that this was happening, that he needed to do more than sit there and not talk. That he couldn't just ignore the doctor or wait it out. That this is as much a part of his recovery as learning to walk again and working out because his PT says it's best or taking his medications. It took him a while to get to the point where he felt comfortable enough to speak about anything more than generics. Right now it feels like they're back at the beginning, not two years into a working relationship.