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The world grainy & distorted, sitting at a dimly lit desk, Steve stares endlessly at the words scattered across the page in a desperate attempt to make them make sense. He reads and rereads but not a semblance of meaning manages to penetrate through his thick skull. With a sigh, he accepts defeat and lays the book to the side and resigns himself to staring at the wall until his alarm clock goes off, giving him permission to run himself ragged in circles. The tick tick tick of the clock rattles through his ear canal, mocking him for thinking he could ever break out of the loop. He’d been told by his SHIELD mandated therapist to immerse himself in the modern world and Steve took it upon himself to start with literature. He thought that books which previously had acted as a place of solace and sanctuary from the outside world would provide a much needed distraction while satisfying the demands of his shrink. He had hoped that just for at least a couple of hours he could bury himself inside the world of fiction. However, his sleep-addled brain has other plans.
During the day, his super-serumed body seems able to power through absolutely anything. Completing missions on an empty stomach and sleepless body? Not a problem. He can do it all day. Attempting to capture even a sliver of joy or fulfillment while off duty? Absolutely not. Performing best in high stress, high stakes situations, to the world, Steve appears to be every bit of the star spangled man with a plan he’s expected to be. It’s only when he gets into the sterile, silent all but for the ticking of the clock apartment that his problems come out to bash him over the head. Or rather his problems can’t be as easily ignored, if he can even call them problems. The word “problem” indicates a level of severity that Steve could never claim to have. They’re more like slight nuisances that he overblows out of proportion. He’s just overdramatic. So overdramatic that he can’t even read a book without encasing himself in a thick layer of gloom and self pity. A majority of his “problems'' are rooted in his own flaws and actions anyway.
He could probably sleep if he actually had sufficient willpower. The “problems” he experiences are just the consequences for a weak force of will. It’s not like he’s physically incapable of sleeping. It’s more that he doesn’t want to. It’s Pathetic. It’s pathetic how a man can let himself become so controlled by some scary memories replaying inside his head.
He does this to himself.
He doesn’t even know what’s wrong with him. The serum was supposed to fix everything and yet he’s still not happy. He gets given the literal magic cure all invincibility potion and he’s still not happy. The serum shouldn’t have been wasted on someone like him. Someone so ungrateful they can’t even appreciate actual superpowers. He should be happy. He has everything he could possibly need to survive and then some.
Maybe he’d be happy by now, if he’d actually protected what made him happy. Maybe he’d be happy, if he’d returned the favour for every damn time that Bucky saved his life. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. That’s all he thinks about as the clock ticks ever forward. He thinks and he thinks and he thinks. He lies on his bed staring blankly at the ceiling as Bucky’s last moments play in every crevice and corner of his mind.
He checks the clock. 3AM on the dot. Just one hour left. One hour until he gets out of the bed and repeats the cycle. One hour until he goes on a run. Five hours until he comes back “home” and he lays on his bed, convincing himself the tightness in his lungs is just from the running. Six hours until he visits the museum to look at Bucky his old friends. Seven hours until he walks out, eyes straight ahead, refusing to let anyone see the state of his eyes. Eight hours until he checks the clock and wishes the day would go faster. Nine hours…Ten hours... Eleven hours… the clock ticks ever forward… They all bleed into each other. Every day is the same. Just another 24 hours until he’s lying back down on his bed praying for sleep, waiting for time to hurry up & let him run away from his feelings.
The only variety in his life are SHIELD missions and therapy. The pain and injury found in missions at least make him feel alive for a short while but even that fades and then he’s just left with the nothingness of his life. Therapy doesn’t help. He knows exactly why SHIELD forces him to gives him the privilege of seeing a therapist and it’s certainly not to improve his mental health. His therapist is just SHIELD’s most brazen intel collector. He’d say it was almost funny except keeping up the charade became a little stale after a while. He wonders how long they’ll bother keeping up this farce. All the unanswered questions, the nervous laughter, the mind games. They can’t possibly think he’s telling the truth. He knows they have cameras in his apartment. They’ve seen the footage. Maybe they’re just waiting for him to break under the pressure and for him to smash the clock hung up on the wall behind his chair taking away the incessant ticking, the forced smiles, the desecration of privacy and the never-ending questions. Then they’d really have an excuse to lock him away for “his own good”. No one would question it. A crazy man on the doctor’s paper, a discarded man in the eyes of the public. Then they’d be able to slice him open whenever they please without having to deal with any pesky consent forms. Then they’d really own him.
They put on a good show about how much the Twenty First century cares about consent and how it’s important they don’t repeat the mistakes of the past but he knows what they really want. They want to just strap him to a table, pump him full of drugs and see what happens. Just like the good old days. He knows they’re still looking for a way to replicate the serum despite the many many examples outlining exactly why that is a horrific, futile path to chase.
But hey, when have silly little things like ethics ever mattered in the pursuit of the greater good?
Sacrifices must be made. One human life or human mind is nothing when compared to the magnitude of collective human suffering alleviated by just one little sacrifice.
Just one little sacrifice and New York was saved. Just one little sacrifice and the bombs never hit.
Just one little sacrifice and Steve can could amends.
Just one little sacrifice and Steve could see Bucky again.
Just one little sacrifice and Steve is in the water, lungs burning as he gasps for air that doesn’t come as his heart tries it’s hardest to beat its way out of his chest and the water is giving his skin a pounding just like Jimmy O’Connor just a short two years ago except this time there is no escape and-
The clock strikes 4. Steve rolls out of bed, slips on his shoes, ties his shoelaces, walks out the door and the clock ticks ever forward.