A/N: This little fic came about from the scene in Avengers wherein (*spoiler alert*) Tony pretty much dies. There was something about that sequence that didn't sit right with me, so I wanted to explore it. It's also something of an experiment on my part, and I'm fiddling with a new writing style. As such, I'd appreciate any feedback you'd like to give, positive or negative. If I missed the mark, tell me; if it sucks, let me know. If it actually turns out half good, you know I want to know that. It only takes a couple of minutes, and it means the world to me.
That said, Avengers is completely the property of the Marvel people, and probably mostly Stan Lee. I didn't invent them, I'm not making any money, and it would be great if nobody sued.
This place was supposed to be my sanctuary. It's not that hard to figure, looking around. The gym has been reproduced (painstakingly, I'm sure) from my time, complete with a fine layer of dust, faded old-style wallpaper, and a set of blood stains on the boxing ring's canvas floor.
If I close my eyes a moment, standing in the sunlight that filters vaguely through the frosted windows, I can imagine opening them to the sight of a full gym, tough guys grunting and shouting as they push one another a little farther with each hit, a little closer to submission. I can see min in shorts that are a little ridiculously high by today's standards, flitting around near the ring, loosening up for the next match, for their go in the ring.
It's a lie of course, down to the frosted windows. They're there to blur reality, to keep me from seeing the high skyline and busy streets just outside. To this day, I haven't figured out how they keep the sounds of the traffic out, but I guess that's not so surprising, when you consider it.
This was supposed to be my sanctuary, my own little island floating in the past, but all it has become is my own private hell. I look around, and I am positive that Fury had a hand in crafting this place, in choosing the little details that create the grand lie, and I am reminded only of what I have lost.
It isn't the time that cuts me. It took a few months, but I've come to terms with where—when—I am, I've even come to call a few people in this strange new world my friends. What kills me, every single time I set foot in this place, is the reminder of who I was, who I'm supposed to be.
I grit my teeth as I lay into a new bag, freshly replace as the old sits in the corner, spilling out a cascade of the tightly-packed stuffing that makes these things worth a punch. Some things just don't change, I think to myself, but even that might not be true.
I'm thinking about Bucky again, like I usually do when I come here, thinking about watching my friend, my best friend, falling, falling into snow and rock and cold and…death, I make myself think, wallowing in the finality, the leaden heaviness of the word in my mind. But I'm also thinking about the last time I was in a gym like this before…before I was in this gym.
It was a couple of years before I was finally able to join up, and I'd come in with Bucky to get a few rounds in. I was the smallest guy there, but I had gotten used to that feeling long ago. They hadn't had any gloves that didn't dwarf my arms and swallow my wrists, but I was determined to make due, taping the edges of the gloves around my forearms. The head gear was a different story, and I could barely see from the low-hanging forehead guard, but I was determined. We had come to the gym with a purpose.
My friend was desperate to teach me to defend myself if I was going to insist on getting into fights. Which I did, recklessly and repeatedly. I had hated the idea at first, because Bucky would never be able to hit me, really hit me. Or so I had thought.
When the bell rang, my old friend was all business, trying to talk me through some defensive maneuvers as the blows rained down on me. Again and again, he would hit the side of my head, the arms I had raised to shield my head, or the midsection I had left exposed. Never once did I duck out of the way, as he kept instructing me to do. All the while, Bucky called out over and over, "I won't be here to protect you forever. I won't be around forever, Steve."
And now, I see him again, falling, falling, but it isn't Bucky this time. No, this time it's a smug little bastard who wraps himself in a tin can and calls himself a hero. And the worst part is that he's right. He's one of the greatest men this world, this time, has to boast about, and he's falling out of the sky at what I would call an alarming rate. Even when he stops, plucked from the sky by the kind of monster I wouldn't have been able to fathom a month ago, he lays on the ground, neither moving nor breathing. And there I am, sitting on my heels and giving up on him.
The punching bag sails across the room, a gaping hole spilling its contents even as it flies. I look down at my hand and see a chunk of canvas still clutched within. I look down at myself and realize that punching bags won't be enough. This is why I come here, I know. I can accept that this time, this world, is different than anything I've ever known. What I can't seem to take is how I've changed, what I've lost, what this world has taken from me.
When I was young, and small, and weak, I never once backed down from a fight, never gave up, didn't even know how. But now, here, in this wide world full of things I never expected, never imagined, I'm the biggest surprise of all.
Same old Steve, says a voice in my head as I stare across the room at the latest casualty of my war against myself, picking fights with the big boys. Getting into scraps he can't handle and letting the real tough guys take the beating.
Sometimes, more and more these days, I miss the little Brooklyn kid who didn't know how to shut his mouth, who got himself sent to the hospital over a girl he didn't know, who always needed rescuing but never seemed to know it. He was a better, stronger man than what I have become.
I cross the room, stepping over one of the felled punching bags as I make my way to the window. With one solid hit, I pop the pane from its frame and the world, the real world, takes over the small space, filling it with unfiltered light, and sound, and smells, and I know that this lie has been the biggest surrender of all.
This is where I am now, this is where I live. I can't go back, no matter how much I might want to, and I can't hide here, living in the past, trying to protect myself from reality with nostalgia and drowning in my own regrets. This new New York won't let me hide here forever.
The world needs a symbol, needs a hero it can look to in the darkest hours, and that hero is me, whether I want that burden or not. This is my life now, this is my home. Every day is a new test, I tell myself, desperate to believe, and as long as you keep moving forward, as long as you don't give up, you'll be okay.
"I won't be here forever," Bucky's voice echoes in my head, and for once I smile. "I will," I whisper aloud. Forever.
I think about that word for a minute, about what it implies. Forever always means a long road, with plenty of room for mistakes, but at least I think I know the first step.
I look around the gym, turning a slow circle, and think about what this place means. Then I grab my bag and turn for the door. I hope I never have to come back here again.
So, once again, I'm messing around with a new writing style to prep for another project, and feedback would be great. I'll put up the next chapter within the week, I think.