The last time shouldn't feel so long ago. Subjectively, to him, it isn't. Subjectively, it's only been a couple of years since he was taking on HYDRA alongside the Commandos, since he went down in the ship. Objectively, it's been longer, but he was asleep all that time. He was asleep.
But coming back, with everything so changed, everything gone, everything new and 'better' and brighter and different, he can feel every year. Sometimes he thinks he remembers dreaming. Sometimes he thinks he might have. He doesn't try to think of it much, doesn't put his energy there because that way lies madness and he's needed too much to allow himself to go there.
But you let your shield drop he reminds himself. One thing, one item, one moment, but it was the encapsulation of so much that made up his life. He'd let his shield drop because he was done being Captain America in that moment. He'd let his shield drop because Steve Rogers was dead and the last gas had run out of Captain America.
He swallows and leans back into the touch and feels the burn of shame for taking it in, for possibly even leading her on, when he's so beaten up inside that he feels like a wind up toy half the time and a broken one the other half.
The last time he'd been touched like this, when he felt safe and cared for, had been in an apartment in Brooklyn a lifetime ago, two dishes in the sink, and a joking kiss to his forehead telling him he was too good for this world.
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But coming back, with everything so changed, everything gone, everything new and 'better' and brighter and different, he can feel every year. Sometimes he thinks he remembers dreaming. Sometimes he thinks he might have. He doesn't try to think of it much, doesn't put his energy there because that way lies madness and he's needed too much to allow himself to go there.
But you let your shield drop he reminds himself. One thing, one item, one moment, but it was the encapsulation of so much that made up his life. He'd let his shield drop because he was done being Captain America in that moment. He'd let his shield drop because Steve Rogers was dead and the last gas had run out of Captain America.
He swallows and leans back into the touch and feels the burn of shame for taking it in, for possibly even leading her on, when he's so beaten up inside that he feels like a wind up toy half the time and a broken one the other half.
The last time he'd been touched like this, when he felt safe and cared for, had been in an apartment in Brooklyn a lifetime ago, two dishes in the sink, and a joking kiss to his forehead telling him he was too good for this world.
God, I'm such a fraud.