Nightmares are what once were, now mere figments of imagination. Yet somehow, they are the most real things you will ever experience. They are the most frightening thing ever to exist, yet they have a strange habit of bringing people together.
Whenever Steve's room was too cold, he'd have a nightmare. It was the same nightmare every single time. He would hear the wind rushing past the jet as he plummeted, then… nothing. Suddenly, he would feel water rushing into his lungs, his stomach, and the water encasing his body slowly freezing him in a watery tomb.
He'd wake up thrashing, coughing, and crying. After the fog of fear mostly lifted, he'd sit in bed, cocooning himself in blankets and trying to think of anything but cold. Fire. Lava. Sun. Any place where ice wasn't natural. Deserts. Hawaii. Mexico.
And when, inevitably, that didn't work, he would get up and shrug on the first jacket he saw, and pull on a pair of old sweats. He'd grab his drawing pad and a pencil and make his way to the door. He'd slip out as quietly as possible, and pad his way over to the stairs.
He would curl up on the couch in the Avenger's common room, as it had been fondly dubbed, and begin to draw. He would draw anything that came to mind, Peggy in front of a campfire, Howard laughing as he poked fun at anyone, or Bucky smiling as he helped Steve up again.
And sometimes, bits of his new life would surface in his drawings. A close-up of Clint, drawing back his bow so his feathers tickled his ear. Bruce, scolding Tony after something else exploded. Tony, laughing as he was scolded by Bruce.
Sometimes, drawing would help, and he would find himself smiling as he drew the time Natasha had tripped over Thor's hammer.
But then he'd remember why he was on the couch and his happiness would vanish, replaced by a sense of brooding, and occasionally, self-loathing.
Eventually, a cup of steaming green tea would be set down in front of him. He would look up and see Bruce, bags under his eyes and clothes askew. A tablet would be in one hand, another cup of tea in the other. Steve would look questioningly at the cup in front of him. Bruce would then offer a small smile, and Steve would return it. Bruce would then take his own cup of decaffeinated tea and find another couch. He would begin tapping on a tablet, a few holograms occasionally flickering up and disappearing.
The TV would turn on, and Steve and Bruce would look up. Lord of the Rings would start to play, volume lowered to almost silent. Clint would drag a bean bag in front of the TV and sit. And if his knuckles were bandaged or his arms were covered, nobody said a word. Bruce would get up and fix another cup of tea, which somehow found its way into Clint's hands.
The coffee machine would begin to whir, and Natasha would settle next to Clint. Bruce would look up at her, and she would shake her head slightly and nod to the coffee machine. Bruce would nod and turn back to the tablet in his hand. Natasha would then let out a soft sigh, all her muscles relaxing.
Thor would come in from the balcony, eyes quiet and sad as they never were in public. He would look at Natasha and Clint in front of the TV and Bruce and Steve on the couches as if weighing a choice, then sit down next to Natasha. Natasha would move her head from Clint's shoulder to Thor's and move her feet onto Clint's lap. Clint would wrinkle his nose and pretend to pout. Thor would chuckle slightly, some of the darkness leaving his eyes.
Tony would stumble in last, the bags under his eyes even more noticeable than Bruce's. He would barely spare a glance at everyone before making his way to the coffee machine. He would pour three cups of black, black coffee, and plop one into Natasha's hands and another into Thor's.
Then he'd take his own cup and drop onto the couch next to Bruce, turning around so his back was on Bruce's shoulder. They'd each take a sip from their own cups and tap on each other's tablets. They would mutter equations, solutions, and new ideas at each other that the others had learned to tune out.
Everyone would be contented, and the room would be mostly silent save for the tapping, muttering, and TV. But those didn't matter, because nobody actually heard them.
Everyone knew the reasons they and the others were there. Everyone knew the dreams, the nightmares, the memories. Everyone knew what it was like to be trapped in your own mind, helpless in a way you weren't in real life, not able to escape. But they didn't say anything. They didn't offer false encouragement, or ask anyone to open up. Because words don't help. Nothing helps.
Eventually, when most of their horrors were shoved into the back of their minds, they would trickle away in pairs. Bruce and Tony would go to their lab to explode more things. Then Clint and Natasha would go to either the gym or the archery range to perfect their sparring and practice their aim. And Steve and Thor would go down to the wrestling ring to see who could break the most punching bags.
They all knew sometime, somehow they would be back in the same positions. Maybe not in an hour, or a day, or a week. Maybe not even a month. But they would be back.
And when they went out in the morning, they would pretend nothing had happened. They would pretend they hadn't woken up screaming without sound, skin soaked in sweat, heart pounding with fear. They would pretend that it didn't happen every night, pretend that there would one day be a reprise.
Tony would go out with overpriced sunglasses and a cheap smile, and tell the press that the night was uneventful, and really, all he did was go to sleep (with Pepper, if you get his meaning). And the press would buy it, never looking past his Ray-Bans and shit-eating grin.
Thor would visit his Jane with a new telescope and tell her he did not know of those so-called 'eye-bags' she spoke of, and he was a god and was not bothered by lack of sleep. And she would smile and peck him on the cheek, and they would find a nice, empty field to lie down and look at the clouds.
Clint and Natasha would train and spar and nothing would be wrong because they were SHEILD agents and assassins and therefore unflappable. And Fury and Maria and Phil and everybody else would accept that, because that's how they were trained to be, and they can't change now, can they?
Steve would play the part of the innocent, righteous Captain America, because that was expected and because what other choice did he have? And nobody would even begin to question anything he did or said, because he was Captain America, and Captain America was perfect.
They would get on with their lives. They do get on with their lives, because the only other option is death, and that holds no appeal. But although they would all get on with their lives, they would always be plagued by nightmares.
Because memories never just… disappear.