Author's Note: I did this as a writing exercise; the prompt was "habit." After a few moments of brainstorming, I decided that a story about Captain America would fit perfectly. Enjoy, and please review!
He knew it was a bad habit. All it did was dredge up old memories,reopen old scars that would only drag him deeper into his depression. But still, he kept doing it. He couldn't help himself. It was like picking off an old scab—you know it's gonna hurt like crazy, but you just have to pick at it.
And so, yet again, Steve Rogers found himself outside New York's museum of history. He stood statue-like before the doors, eying the shiny handle as if daring it to make the first move.
You can't keep living in the past, Steve, he thought to himself, echoing the words he'd heard over and over since being freed from the ice. The life he'd known was gone; nothing he did could ever bring it back. Time to suck it up and move on, soldier.
That's what people kept telling him. That's what he kept telling himself. He'd tried so hard to follow the advice—to accept his new reality instead of pining for what he'd lost. His time with the Avengers had helped; in the heat of combat, with trusty companions by his side, he felt like himself again. Action was what he was meant for—what he'd lived for since adopting the role of Captain America. During battle, there was no time for brooding. It was the time after the battle that tortured him. Then, in the calm after the storm, the emotions crept in—the thoughts of the time before the ice, of the friends he'd made and the woman he'd loved. It was times like this that tormented him.
To think, I once longed for the world to have peace, Steve snorted, and now it's the peaceful times that I can't stand. There was a bitter sort of irony in it. He was sure the Red Skull would have gloated over the paradox—a hero who, by preventing disaster, created his own torment. Steve knew he couldn't go on like this. He could keep his connections to the past, or he could keep his sanity, but not both. Sooner or later, he would have to let go of one or the other.
Reluctantly, Steve's gloved hand reached out and grasped the door handle. A rush of a warm air met him as he entered the building. The smell of dust and wood polish filled his nostrils—the smell of a place devoted to preserving ancient history. He breathed the scent in deeply.
Someday, someday soon, he would have to make his choice.
But today could not be that day.