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He’s eighteen and there’s a number on his wrist counting down from seventy years, seventy long years between him and his soulmate. The nurse who had injected attached the detection device had giggled at first, no doubt thinking it was a joke and then quickly sobered when she realized it wasn’t, exchanging the laughter for pity.
Steve preferred the laughter.
He kept the number hidden, kept it close and kept the thoughts buried deep. The emotions were only allowed out in the middle of the night when his mind wandered, running rampant as he listened to his breath rattle in the winter air. The number helped in one way; as Bucky had pointed out, it meant he would live for a while yet despite his asthma, despite the diseases that plagued his small form. He chose to cling to that when his thoughts turned melancholy, when he was left staring up at the ceiling, hands fisting against his chest as he fought for breath.
Thinking about her helped, took him away from his broken body for a while. So he let himself wonder, imagined what she would look like. Sometimes he wondered if it’ll be anything more than a passing glance and felt a pang of longing too sharp and keen for something he didn’t have. He wondered if he would even be able to properly meet her, to speak with her. He’d like her voice, he thinks, bright and vibrant when explaining concepts he has no hopes of understanding.
He wondered if she’d be his age when they met. an entire lifetime written on her face, a lifetime he had been unable to see. That hurt most of all and he has to chase away resentment far too sharp for something not quite real.
He cannot begin to imagine the future, can’t think of a single word to describe what the world would be like so many years from now and as the threat of war looms over him, he just hopes it’ll be nice. And because it seems so stupid to think of in the light of day, he keeps his dreams confined to his bedroom when he stares up into darkness, when nothing seemed real.
He imagined a house, large, ostentatious; it’d be her idea and she’d sell him on it when she pulled apart the curtains on the topmost floor and reveal New York in all its splendor. He imagined mornings in bed, a warm body besides his, pillow creases pressed into cheeks and had to remind himself that such things were as tenuously shaped as smoke in the wind.
He knew it was masochistic so he never let himself get too far; he had one unachievable dream, he didn’t need another. He wasn’t naive enough to believe she would wait seventy years for him; there would be no quiet mornings in bed, no late evenings where she’d wake him trying to sneak into bed after endless hours spent on projects he didn’t quite understand. She would be useless in the morning and so very vibrantly alive in the dead of the night, when the world was asleep.
(Because sleep was for the weak, she’d say when he mentioned it and he’d smile and kiss her, trying to discretely lead her back to their bed.)
She’d be intelligent, thousands of times beyond human capabilities and tireless, working until her fingers blurred as she created. She’d keep going until coaxed into a bed, a maneuver requiring two parts talent and one part luck.
But she wouldn’t be with him because these were just dreams, just thoughts and trivial speculation.
So he tried let it go, chased after his own place in the changing world instead and tried to at least shape an end he could look back on with pride. He wanted to help, wanted to do something worthwhile. He aimed with the army, wanting the solidarity of the role, wanting to be in the thick of the oncoming war, helping. It was a dream he could put his hands on and forcefully shape into reality and he clung to a with a tenacity only he was capable of.
But whenever he came back to his apartment with 4F on his papers and another rejection heavy in his heart, the thoughts of her soothed rather than hurt, if only for a little while.
Then Dr. Erskine approached him and Steve would never be able to explain the thick haze of excitement and joy. Someone that didn’t know him from Adam believed in him, in his capabilities. He would be a soldier, would be able to serve his country (protect it for the one he had yet to meet). It was enough that he forgot all about his little fantasies at least until the prospect of the serum was brought up.
It sounded ridiculous, impossible because it promised so much; he’d be faster, stronger, better. And when Erskine had mentioned changes in aging he’d had to bite down on his tongue to keep quiet. He didn’t need that, didn’t need to be selfish now when he’d been given such an opportunity to do better things. So he didn’t dare ask, didn’t want the doctor to know his selfishness and kept it smothered. But Steve had seen the doctor’s eyes flicker to his wrist and knew Erskine had seen the numbers continually counting down oh so slowly. Erskine had smiled gently at him so kind and warm, without a trace of the pity that sent Steve’s hackles up; Erskine had patted him on the shoulder and said, “Let’s see what we can do, hm?”
To this day Steve still wonders what exactly he had been referring to and can’t ask. With Erskine dead there’s no one to answer so he keeps quiet, does what he has to because he has a job to do. And no matter how much he hates the USO shows he’s helping; has to believe that he is.
(He thinks she’d be laughing at him, singing his show tunes over and over. It’s be mocking at first but in the end she’d turn to him, slap his hard on the shoulder and shove him forward.)
And suddenly he’s Captain America and there’s even less chance for such thoughts anymore. He’s too busy, there’s never enough time and he has to be perfect, flawless because that’s what the serum was for. He has plans to make, lives to protect and he’s dizzyingly happy at being able to make a difference with a family at his back. Then there’s Peggy and the ache he hadn’t known had been there ebbs away in her presence.
Steve loves her, so much it roars through him, so bright and alive he can scarcely breathe sometimes. But he sees the enviably low number on her wrist, catches her glancing at her wrist in quiet moments in between and knows she’s wondering just as he wonders. They keep each other company, makes it a little less lonely for one another as they wait and they love, but Steve knows they’ll both keep wondering. They’re too stubborn to give up on anything.
He tries not to think about it, though and it works until Bucky dies. He’s left behind, half there and broken by grief as he drifts without his best friend and anchor.
(She wouldn’t hold him. She’d sit next to him, silent, grieving with him for hours until the day broke, sunlight slicing through the night sky until it purpled before burning orange. Then she press a hand against his shoulder in a reminder.)
He goes after Hydra with a single-minded intent that should scare him but he doesn’t fucking care. He needs to do what he has to so he doesn’t lose someone else important in his life, doesn’t think he can bear that type of pain again. So he forgets about her, shoves her away because there’s no time for such things, no time for love and fantasy, no place for boyhood dreams and wishes.
She doesn’t come back to him until he’s going down and Steve Rogers allows himself one brief moment of bitter regret because even if she’d been a mere shade of her younger self he would have liked to meet her at least once, to quell the curiosity that eats at him day to day. It didn’t matter in the end though; he’ll be the soldier, he’ll take the plane down because that’s what Captain America has to do.
He had glanced at his wrist, noted the numbers still counting down and feels only the briefest flicker of hope before it is snuffed out at the sight of the waters rising to greet him. There’s no avoiding it; he’s smart enough to know about the cold, knows he’s not getting out of this. He shapes his lips in an apology, silent words for the person who does not truly exist yet. Just before he goes down he imagines sleepy mornings buried deep in luxurious blankets, a confident smirk and sharp eyes and finds himself reaching, clinging to the image with as much determination as Steve Rogers could muster because he’s done now, can finally allow himself this.
When he wakes up again, after the panic and adrenaline has worn off he had glanced at his wrist, noted with incredulity that it read two weeks. In the midst of the ghosts, heedless of the ice that still chills his veins, he still has her and every part of him is screaming to cling to this and never let go.
He’s not a soldier anymore, can’t feel anything but tired and old because he is. He’s been left behind and he holds blindly to his gentler dream. There’s no longer a fight for him but there’s still someone waiting for him. He feels a glee that he knows he should feel ashamed of, a roar in his ear that blocks out the alien world that had sprouted up around him. Because if anything he has time for them now.
A week left and the euphoria has faded, given way to impatience and it leaves Steve surly and short-tempered. The ghosts are back, screaming pain and anger and hurt, demanding to be felt, to be remembered. He destroys punching bag after punching bag in desperation, wanting to feel something, anything that isn’t that all-consuming guilt and sorrow and there’s this ever-conflicting joy that only adds to the guilt until he’s suffocating, drowning once more so far away from home. He’s lost, so very lost after being left to think things over. He can’t cling to a person, can’t try to live life through another. He knows that. He also knows he’ll step up to a fight if SHIELD asks him to because he’s promised to be a good man, promised to do the right thing, will always step up to do the right thing.
And he’s going to make the same mistake again, going to add one more ghost to the hundreds.
He utters a growl of rage as the punching bag he’s been working on splits under his blows and he’s left with nothing but that crushing desolation. He’s so tired, so conflicted, so confused, so fucking lost and so damn alone in this new world.
He thinks bitterly that he should probably get used to the idea.
Three days left and Steve panics. He’s learned how to breathe, forces himself to do so with the same determination he uses to power through an asthma attack sometimes and tries to cement himself into the world. But it’s not Steve Rogers moving about, it’s the Captain, stone-faced and determined because there’s nothing else but this and the next mission. At least this way he can quiet the discomfort crawling beneath this skin, can choke down the desperation in the back of his throat that makes him keenly aware of how out of place he is.
Two days left and another’s war’s begun. He’s called up again and he goes to prepare, fully cementing himself in Captain America because if there’s one thing he knows its that the Captain never fails, will always be there and be perfect. Steve Rogers may have been left behind but the Captain won’t. It’ll be fine like this; he can stay the Captain, can skim by in this strange new world if he does so.
Four hours left and he can’t stop staring at his wrist because it’s become so very real in these last moments; he’s going to meet her no matter what. And it’s going to hurt when he can’t tell her who he is, can’t show her this life he’s somehow managed to pieced together in the past few days. It’s going to hurt, like a knife to the gut when he blankly tells her there’s no space for her.
An hour left and he’s going insane, feels like his asthma is back again. Weeks of effort to try and fit into this strange new world and it’s all gone, evaporated as he wavers, drowning in uncertainty uncharacteristic of him.
Half an hour and he’s barely managing to keep still, sees the faint irritation in the Black Widow’s face when he shifts in his seat for the hundredth time, tapping his pen against the tabletop like a madman.
Ten minutes left and he’s facing off an alien army that had been unleashed upon New York.
Seconds now, the thought drops in his mind idly and promptly falls out because he’s inches from having a hole blasted in his head and he’s struggling to get the alien off him because he’ll be damned if he came so close and wound up breaking his promise again.
And he’s so sorry he’s such an idiot. He’s so fucking sorry that there wasn’t time before and that there won’t be time now and if he gets another chance he’s going to make sure he makes the fucking time because the regret is black and vile, suffocating– and– and–
A streak of red and gold blurs in the corner of eye, knocks the alien off him. Without warning a streak of blue bullets towards him but it’s fine; he knows this. His shield is up before he can think and he redirects the blast towards the mass of aliens heading his way. There’s a beat before the aliens regroup and Steve’s left staring incredulously at a red and gold mask, unable to speak, unable to think as his heart roars in his ear.
“Captain,” he hears and the armor’s eyes glow blue seconds before the man takes off, becoming nothing more than a streak of red and gold in the distance.
And Steve Rogers finds himself being grabbed, yanked into the twenty-first century by the only man who could. He feels like laughing or crying, maybe a little bit of both. Plus or minus vomiting (just a bit).
Because in the midst of the chaos, rising high above the echoes of war is a laugh he’s heard a thousands times, deep and throaty. There’s some many undertones to it: shock, glee, amusement, disbelief, all blend perfectly to make it bright with life.
He’s going to find time for that this, going to find time for them because that laugh, rich and throaty, is so completely and utterly happy in its rawest form. Just that alone makes it worth fighting for, he thinks.
(And sh–he, salutes him from up high, wearing that damnable, all-knowing smirk he gets when he’s right.)