Steve Rogers was never quite dead.

He was a miracle. A man preserved through purgatory and heaven and hell and all the way back to Earth. A not-quite-corpse.

His friends, however, were very much dead. Even though some refused to believe it, they were dead. And he was alone.

Steve Rogers was a well loved man, before and during and after death. His name was one of the many etched into stone following the greatest tragedy of his year.

In the end, his life began with a war, and his only wish was that it ended with it as well. Then he would never have to stand alone, flowers pressed between his fingers and the cold ground. Six feet between. Six feet, a lifetime and a half, and a million unsaid words.

What if he'd woken up? What if he finished it faster? Would his name be on the grave next to hers, the words 'husband' and 'wife' finally added to the long list of things they'd achieved?

Proud parents.

Wonderful friends.

Fighters till the end.

What about his comrades? Those men had taken on Death like he was bull and they were the toreros. Those men hadn't been oblivious, but knowingly ignorant of the fact that sometimes the bull fights back. In most of their cases, he won.

Steve Rogers was never quite dead, no matter how much he wanted to be. He was the epitome of traditionality, his skin-tight suit showing what has long been forgotten. They chose him because he was willing to sacrifice himself for others. But how could he sacrifice himself when they wouldn't let him?

A million graves and a million flowers later and he is still here. Still alone. Still cold. Still not-quite dead.