Left
@pulsatsiya
It was dark. Then again, it was always dark, an absent sort of lack of light. And that was the truth of it -- there was an absence more than a dark. A dark made it sound like there was something to stare into, and there just wasn't. Steve remembered, of course. He remembered seeing the flash of white, the way it had been absolutely everywhere. He remembered other things, remembered them in vivid, bright details, crystal-clear. Faces, buildings, letters, pictures. His mother, Peggy, Howard, the Commandos... Bucky.
Waking up had been overwhelming. He'd opened his eyes in a strange room, and he'd heard a game he already knew. There had been nothing he could see but he'd heard the sound of the game, the sounds of the street -- muffled and off, but there. He'd smelled soap and metal and wood, the faint hint of a perfume he didn't recognize. When a woman had walked in, he'd panicked at the unfamiliar tone, at the ones that had followed. He'd found his way out, stumbled, running, and it was probably a miracle he hadn't run face-first into something. He'd found himself in the middle of a street, concrete warm under his feet, the city too damn noisy around him, and the scent of something -- more.
And he was alone. That hadn't changed. He'd been alone since the train. It was sharper, now, maybe. He was farther away and he'd never felt closer to that moment, to the ache of it.
He managed, though, training, learning to do things in an entirely new way. He'd learned to read again, using Braille, had found a way to mark his money and his clothes. SHIELD helped, and the media loved to run stories about a man out of time, unable to see what the future held for him. The ice had kept him preserved, and it had taken something else, had damaged that one part of him the scientists couldn’t explain -- refused to call it permanent with the miracle of the serum thrumming through his veins, even if Steve felt the weight of it. It was awkward and wrong, and he stayed in his room, unable to draw, unable to throw himself into a fight he wanted to dig into if only because what the hell else was he good for? What was the point if he couldn't use what he'd been given. A hell of a lot had been taken away -- the people he loved, his home, his time, his sight. But, he still had everything Dr. Erskine had given him with the serum. He'd be damned if he wasted it.
It took time, though, to relearn so damn much. The shield was his, and he knew every inch of it. And it sat, waiting, by his bed, as he sat, waiting, on a couch, listening to the sounds of the radio. When he heard something else, Steve sat up slightly, cocking his head to the side and just listening. The soft, pale blue shirt he was wearing pulled up slightly on his side as he leaned forward and Steve's hand itched to pull it down. Instead, he forced his fingers to remain still, quiet and calm on the cushion, right beside his phone. "Who's there?"