it twists and turns in his stomach, fingers white as they clench the box of cookies, throwing up his meds this morning, hitting his head yesterday as he fought monsters that only walked his soul : steve is a fucking mess and every breath shakes the poorly built foundations of what's left of the carnage. trauma is a funny thing, not something that falls from his lips in a smile but something that borders on insanity, a terrible laugh that is only born out of a need to avoid tears. but he does not avoid those, they spring to his eyes at any moment, a sadness he was not born with, one he does not know how to deal with. his stomach lurches as the box is open with shaking fingers, the smell of food a disgust that makes his jaw clench. the gym is the only time he goes out of his shoebox appartment, needing to tire his body out, to keep away the doctors and their disapproving frowns.
there is trouble with his leg, trouble with his hip, his brain is another matter on its own. but steve cannot let himself go, bloody fingers grip life with despair, unwilling to SIMPLY LET GO, to let the darkness eat his whole soul. some days, there is no fight left, his body cannot move from his bed, sleep unwilling to free him, limbs unable to move. it feels like it could never end, like there would never be any light, any movement ever again. but it passes, everything passes at the end. still, his mother's death is a grief he cannot process, one that does not pass. still, his pain is a constant thing, one that the doctors have said would not pass, one that is slowly working its way to destroy him, a patient poison like vine growing around his bones.
his chest is an open graveyard, a tombstone for every failure, inhabited by ghosts that are restless. the thoughts lead to a burning in his eyes, eyelids moving fast, hoping to keep the tears away, glancing at steel blue eyes and crooked smile. do they all have graveyards he wonders ? are there inside bucky ghosts that whisper in his ears ? are there regrets that bite and memories that burn ? a few words about a father that are draped in loathing, that are draped with a love that is despised. there has never been hate in his own heart, no matter how much he tried, hate was not part of his vocabulary. everyone has a story, steven, you cannot judge someone without having read it. his soft heart is his mother's gift, his empathy too. could a dead father he never knew have offered him something of his ? should the legacy have been death all along ? maybe the pain he feels is for a survival that shouldn't have happened, the rogers name made to be engraved rather than written.
eyes flutter at the apology, storing it away, like all apologies he ever receives these days. it's no one's fault, no one but his though he cannot yet pinpoint where he went wrong. was it enlisting ? was it becoming a captain ? was it that first decision to take the mission ? the questions are endless, they turn in his head, chasing away the sleep, reality, hours passing by without him noticing.
there couldn't be a more relieved breath as bucky's words pierce through the mist, pulling his attention back to him, pulling him from the depth of his sorrow. head slightly tilts, trying to imagine the kind of roommate the man would have that would threaten him. he does notice that the man said roommate, steve wonders if he should get a roommate too, someone that would push away the loneliness. but the thought is quickly buried, to be forgotten. to impose himself on someone else would be selfish, the nightmare and depression, the inability to be of help some days, it would be UNFAIR. and so he will keep himself locked in his cage, the one steve has the keys to but he is too afraid, fearful of what awaits him past the door.
' she sounds like a smart lady, ' the words are muttered, the silence in the room enough for him to be heard, ' do you like coming here ? ' and his eyes dart to the side, catching the man's, wondering what he can see here. can bucky pinpoint the grief ? the despair ? how lost steve feels ? it doesn't matter, there is nothing anyone can do for him anyway, trying to have bucky shoulder a bit of his pain would be unfair. a sigh escapes his lips at the question, he cannot hope to ask questions without having to answer some of them. ' no, i, i, well, sam, sam wilson ? i don't know if you, well, you probably know him. i've met him, at the, at the gym, you know ? and he said, sam said that i, ' it's so incredibly difficult, eyes moving around, unable to focus, looking for words he cannot find, like a dictionary spilled on the floor, words all mixed up. ' he said it could be good for me, ' he finishes lamely, head hanging low, defeated. ' guess you can get why i didn't have the guts to go. ' a hollow chuckle serves as period at the end of the depreciating sentence uttered under his breath.
the box of sweets is handed, heart squeezing at the rank, remembering the pristine costume hanging in his dresser, the one thing that brought him pride and he feels unworthy of wearing now. unworthy of his rank, of his costume, of his flag. he can feel himself closing on himself, shoulders dropping. a few stumbling words and he drowns. but politeness is so ingrained, he makes teeth dig into tongue, the pain bringing him back, ' you can have them, i'm not that hungry. ' the shakiest smile he can muster is offered, hoping bucky will have the grace to not comment on his slow fall to insanity.