Save Me, Steve. // Captain America

7- Steve

That night Bucky's face clouded my dreams, haunting me until it transformed into a nightmare; endless and horrifying. My own brain mocked me of my stupidity and selfishness; I was too busy trying to protect myself than trying to protect the man who meant more to me than my own flesh and blood.

I wake in a hot sweat, beads of water dripping down my back as the images of Bucky's limp body being dragged across the cold tarmac etch themselves in my brain and refuse to let me go. My breathing grows heavy and it makes me dizzy, the room around me spins a little as I hazily drag myself out of bed and down the hallway.

I reach for the nearest bottle of alcohol to me as I trudge into the kitchen. I know it won't have any effect on me but I just need something hard and strong in my system; something to drown out my own thoughts enough that I could clear my head for even a second.

I quickly unscrew the top of the whiskey bottle and throw the entire contents down my throat, shivering a little as the fiery trail it leaves down the inside of my neck scorches my insides. 

I don't even bother to put the bottle back on its shelf, I let it slip from my hand where it smashes silently on the tiled floor by my bare feet.

For a long minute I just stand in the middle of my sparkling white kitchen, staring into nothingness as my head continues to torture me.

Why didn't I save him?

Was I so caught up in my own fights that I forgot the main reason we were even there? That it was Bucky we were supposed to protect and not me?

I never realised how selfish I had become, how self-centred my world really was.

A memory springs to the front of my brain and overcomes all my other thoughts; my large yet fragile frame hurridly cradling a grenade that would have surely killed me if not for the fact that it was just a test. 

Before I became Captain America I was just a small boy whose mind was always worrying about other people, so much to the point that I endangered myself just to protect some stranger.

I force myself to trudge over to the sofa on the other side of the room to the kitchen, swinging my legs up onto the creamy leather that warms and softens at my clumsy touch. I rest my head on the arm of the sofa, staring up at the plain ceiling. I concentrate on the random notches in the wall where the plaster failed to spread, finding little intricate patterns everywhere I look.

I don't distract myself for long as the sound of someone knocking on my door fills my eardrums. When I ignore it, however, the knocking gets louder and faster until I heave myself off the sofa and open the door to find Natasha nearly pounding her fist through my door, her plump lips set in a fierce grimace.

She shoves past me into the lounge and stands in the middle of the floor staring at me, her arms tightly crossed.

I walk over to the sofa and slump onto it once again after I'd slammed the door shut, not caring if it broke or not. Not caring at all.

Natasha stares at me for a few minutes, scrutinising every part of my face before uncrossing her arms and sinking into the armchair pushed against the opposite wall to where I sit.

She hesitates before speaking, her voice low and quiet. "Listen, I know you've had a rough time, but-"

"A 'Rough Time'?!" I interrupt, enraged. "You have no idea what I went through, I had 70 years of nothingness, 70 years of my life taken away in a flash! 70 years of not knowing whether Bucky was alive or dead, his body never found beneath the ice and rubble he fell upon. Trust me, Natasha, you have no idea what it's like finding out that your soulmate is alive after all these years and is trying to kill you!"

By this point I had somehow gone from a sitting position to towering over Natasha, watching her shrink back into the armchair with wide, concerned eyes.

No matter how hard I try to keep my voice level, it had cracked and mirrored the broken insides of myself. Tears threaten to blur my vision and wet my cheeks, but I keep them in, determined to be strong.

But no matter how hard I try to kid myself that everything's fine, the place in my soul which Bucky used to fill has been ripped open, leaving a black hole that endless amounts of excruciating pain lurks within.

"Steve-"

"No! I don't need your pitiful words or your reassurance. He's gone, for sure. Maybe not dead, but they won't hesitate to wipe his memory. All that work, for nothing."

My feet find their way back to my warm sofa, which I quickly curl into. I hear Natasha's heavy breaths, how she tries to steady herself but she says nothing for an extended amount of time.

"Look, he's only been kidnapped."

I snort, turning away from her and pressing my nose into the back of the sofa, the strong smell of leather filling my nostrils.

"Seriously, even if they wipe his memory, they're not going to kill him. He's the best weapon anyone could hope for, they won't waste it..him." She corrects herself, like she was reminding herself that Bucky is actually a person and not just a weapon of mass destruction. And her enemy.

I want to scream at her for what she said, making Bucky sound like an empty body that was only useful as a weapon, but I hold still, refusing to show her how much her words affect me.

He did have a heart; if you dug deep enough. And I had dug too deep.

"There's still hope, Steve. If only you could see past your own grief to see that he's still alive. And we can save him. You know where to find me so once you've stopped snivelling and wallowing in self-pity we can sort all of this out together."

She lets the silence fill the air before getting up and walking out of the apartment, closing the door softly behind her.

It felt like Natasha had spat venom at me, those last few words sticking in my brain like the endless ringing sound of a bell.

The room grows empty, like so empty that it feels like I'm not even present in the room, like I'm just a soul, an empty soul that suddenly has no purpose on this earth.

It makes me feel sick.

I just want to lie on this sofa and cry until my eyes run dry and swollen and my bones seize up, but I can't be selfish. Not at a vital time like this where Bucky is in danger. If I give into my selfishness then we could all start right back at the beginning.

And I don't have the energy for that.

I wrench my stiff body off of the leather that had seemed so warm and comforting just moments ago and walk back into my bedroom where I open my wardrobe and stare at the rows of clothing that Falcon had helpfully picked out for me a while ago. My fashion sense isn't exactly up to date, I'm still quite a few decades behind the trends so I would have been completely suffocated on my own by all the stuff that I need nowadays.

I strip off my grey sweatpants and exchange them for some denim jeans that are a little too tight on my legs. I pick out a plain black t shirt, as I'm in no mood to try and colour coordinate my clothes together, that takes far too much precious time. And I've already wasted enough.

I fold my pyjamas neatly and place them gently on one of my pillows before grabbing my mobile phone and keys and heading for the front door. I pull out my phone from my pocket and squint at the little screen before finishing scrolling through my contacts to the right name.

I step into the elevator- as the many flights of stairs felt too unwelcoming and time consuming- and I press the dial button on the mobile.

It rings three times before they pick up.

"Sam? Meet me at our H.Q with Natasha and Fury, we have a rescue mission to plan."