This is actually my first fanfiction, so please be gentle :)
Steve spent the first six months trying to completely avoid his own thoughts.
The key word is tried.
Within those first few weeks, anything that slightly alluded to a memory of his past would quickly and efficiently render him useless. He would gasp for air as bright images flashed through his mind. Moments long since faded, dusty recollections that he clung to like old photographs, hoping that by some grace of God he would wake up and it could all be real again, but this time he would catch Bucky and love Peggy and for God's sake this time he could do better.
But Steve wasn't the type of person who could live in their own fantasy. He knew that he couldn't go back. So Steve Rogers did what he had always done best.
He learned to adapt.
Or maybe he hadn't.
Because soon the Avengers barged into his life along with Loki and he barely had any time left over to breathe, let alone reminisce.
So for a while Steve had been okay. Maybe he was even getting better. He made new friends and lived in a new apartment, and he had new missions that kept his mind and body incessantly, exhaustively busy.
Slowly, though, it wore on him. The flashes returned, but they weren't as bad this time, so it was okay, he could handle it. He was Captain America, after all. He had lives to save and a team to take care of; he couldn't let a petty nervous tick come between that.
So he joked around with Clint and kept Tony out of trouble as best as he could, and occasionally, when she would let him, would have a quiet heart-to-heart with Natasha. They were by no means a family, but Steve was able to keep five potentially lethal people living under one roof on speaking terms, which was an accomplishment.
But then the missions had steadily become more frequent, more dangerous. His reflexes gradually slowed, his mind turned foggy.
He watched as a group of civilians were terminated because of one stupid mistake. They saw him right before the building exploded.
He watched as Steve Rogers melted with the rest of the bodies.
It was sort of funny, because that was the same night when he had stood in the shower for nearly an hour and a half, watching as blood spilled out of his leg and onto the tile.
Coincidentally, it also shared the date with when Steve decided he was going to go on a walk through Brooklyn.
Or maybe it had been more of a run.
Perhaps a sprint.
He had lost track of time by the time his legs finally began to give out. The twinge of pain in his calf had evolved into a constant burning. This was comforting, for some reason. Maybe it was because even though he was Captain America, it didn't mean that he was completely invincible.
But he had already known that.
It didn't matter, though, because he had reached his destination. He admired it though the light of the flickering street lamps. It had remained remarkably unchanged through the years he had been gone. Different people, different buildings, but Brooklyn still wore the same layer of filth as he remembered. He started wandering down familiar streets, headed nowhere in particular when one memory rose above the constant whirl of the others, and whispered something in his ear. It stung as it rubbed against his cheek. He tried to laugh, realized it sounded more like a gasp.
Fifteen minutes later found him staring up at his old apartment building. It was long since vacant, and the red "x" painted on every window hinted to demolition in its near future.
He found a smashed-in window and wedged himself through. It was pitch black on the inside, the street lights no longer an asset to him, but still he trudged on. He stepped over broken beer bottles and shattered pieces of glass as he heaved himself up the stairs.
The door had been locked, but he somehow found a way to get the door open without knocking it down entirely. He looked around at the uneven floors he still dreamed about at night, the stains on the ceiling, the part of the closet door that had partially been worn away at the edges from constant slamming over the years.
Had it always felt so empty?
Steve wanted to cry out, to pound his fists against the ground and just scream, because this was supposed to make everything better. He was supposed to see his mom and Bucky and everyone else here happy and smiling and healthy and he could be the old, wimpy, carefree Steve Rogers again and, God was he crying?
It was in that moment that he realized he didn't want to be any version of Steve Rogers anymore.
Everything had become so clear to him in a sudden flash of coherent thought but now his head sort of hurt and he realized that he was lying on the sagging floorboards.
He let out an airy laugh, thinking of how pathetic it was that Captain America had just fainted, but his breath hitched, and he spent the next few moments trying to breathe through the pain.
Soon he wouldn't have to be Captain America anymore, either.
He wouldn't have to be anyone.
But deep down, that thought really didn't change anything. Deep down, Steve knew that the things he had done, the mistakes he had made were already done, the lives he had meddled with would remain disfigured. And no matter how much he wanted it to, his death wasn't going to change any of that.
What he was doing was selfish.
He tried to pick himself up, but when he tried to lift his head the room started to spin and he tried to laugh again but it came out as a whimper instead.
Steve let the rest of the air rush out of his lungs in a wail, higher pitched than he had meant for it to be.
That sound was so unfamiliar, so alien. It rested next to Steve as he crumbled. Whispering things that he tried to tell himself he didn't understand, that weren't true.
But he did, he understood every last damn word it said.
Steve Rogers finally broke as his trembling body was consumed by the light of the rising sun.
I'm really not much of a writer, but it's something that is fun for me (on occasion) so I figured I'd give this a try. I'm still trying to find my voice and style, so patience is appreciated :).