So here's the nightmare fic I said I was working on. (See, I do finish projects. Occasionally. Sometimes. Always waaaaay after they should be done.) And it turns out, the nightmare is only in the first paragraph. That being said, it is a nightmare so it isn't pleasant.
Title comes from Richard Siken's poem Litany in Which Certain Things are Crossed Out
Steve tastes blood in his mouth. It isn't his. The flavor of corroded metal bursts on his tongue when the thick syrup sprays his face. His fingers are coiled into fists that slam down, over and over, into skull, which gives beneath the pressure, bone sinking and collapsing like dirt in a landslide. The man beneath him is a messy pulp but Steve won't stop. He can't. Again and again, he smashes his hands into the squishy hollow where a brain used to be. Again and again. Until bone is dust. Until skin is flaps of rotted garbage. Until slippery liquid replaces human remains and he can see the drops fly through the air, feel them slide down his throat, painting his rib cage scarlet. They drip down, down, down and fill his stomach, where they become an ocean, rising until his stomach swells and overflows. The bitter slime of bile mixes in his esophagus and the concoction swirls around his teeth, scratches his gums, buries itself in his taste buds before it gushes out his lips, dribbling over his chin. It's a waterfall, wave upon wave of it, the tide bringing it up and out. It runs in rivulets off his jaw, across his chest and down his legs. Vomit and blood boil into poison that climbs up his body. In front and behind, it surrounds him, soaking through his uniform all the way to his muscles. The flood rises first to his waist. Then to his abdomen. To his torso. His shoulders. And then it covers his head, swallowing him whole. It's salt water that stings and bites and devours and freezes solid.
His legs can't move-he can't run from it.
His chest can't move-he can't breathe.
His head can't move-he can't close his eyes and pretend he isn't dying.
Steve wakes and tastes blood in his mouth. It's his. The flavor of corroded metal bursts on his tongue when the thick syrup floods his oral cavity. He moves his body, vertebrae spinning into place as he sits up. Violent shivers shake his entire form like dirt in a landslide. Minutes come and go, inhales and exhales, while he sits and shakes. The spasms contort his muscles into aching knots but Steve won't stop. He can't. Again and again, he clenches and releases his fisted fingers. Again and again. Until his bones are dust. Until his skin is bleached white across the knuckles. Until slippery liquid replaces dry palms and he can see the drops fly through the air, feel them slide down his wrists, painting his forearms with salt. They drip down, down, down and fill the sleeves of his sleep shirt, where they seep through the cotton, raising gooseflesh when they touch his skin. When he takes a breath, the bitter stench of sweat mixes with the cool air conditioning and the concoction swirls around his teeth, scratches his gums, buries itself in his taste buds before it gushes down his throat, dribbling through his trachea. There's a headache hammering inside his skull, wave upon wave of pain, the tide slamming into his brain. A raindrop of blood trickles from the corner of his mouth, evidence of the casualty his tongue became in the late night hours. It runs across the curvature of his jaw and topples like a crumbled headstone, spinning through the space between his chin and collarbone before smashing into the cotton fibers of his shirt. Vomit boils in his stomach and claws its way up his body. If he doesn't expel it voluntarily, it might ooze out his pores, soaking though skin and fabric. He rises from the rumpled mattress and stumbles to the bathroom, arm curled restrictively around his abdomen. The strength leaves him before he makes it to the toilet and he ends up bracing his torso with his arms on the counter when he throws up in the sink. It's acid that stings and bites and devours and freezes solid.
His legs can't move-but he can't stop shaking.
His chest can't move-but he can't stop heaving.
His head can't move-but he closes his eyes anyway and pretends he isn't dying.
Steve waits, supported by weakening muscles, until his stomach ceases its violent spasms. Until his diaphragm unwinds and his lungs untangle. Until he can see past the nightmare inside his head to the nightmare outside it. He slowly comes to the realization that he is just a man standing barefoot in a dark bathroom, with slimy strings of yellow bile dangling from his lips and chunky bits of vomit in the sink basin. It's disgusting and shameful and his hand immediately reaches out and rotates the knob for hot water. The water shoots out of the faucet and he cups his hand, using his palm to bring the fresh liquid to his mouth. There's water and saliva and blood and bile all mixed up with his teeth and tongue and gums and he's aware of all of it, of every flavor in his crowded mouth. He spits and rinses and repeats the cycle until the only thing he can taste is the bitter tang of humiliation. With stiff movements and wooden eyes, he directs the flow of water around the sink, watching in disgust as his regurgitated dinner tumbles down the drain. Some pieces stubbornly stick to the glass and he grimaces when he pries them loose with his fingertips. A generous amount of hand soap goes into the basin next. It won't really sanitize but it's the best he can do, and that's all he can ever do.
He steps back into the bedroom and, by the city lights crawling through the crack in the window curtains, looks at the mess of tangled bed covers. Blankets and sheets are twisted together, hanging off the mattress, pooling on the hardwood floor. With lips pressed, he yanks them completely off, pulling the different pieces of material apart. He replaces them on the bed with military precision, tugging at the corners, stretching them taunt until not a single wrinkle remains. It's perfection and he won't touch it again. He backs out of his room, spine like a metal rod jammed into his back, and shoulders a tight line perpendicular to that. The hallway is quiet and dimly illuminated. He marches to the end, stabs at the elevator buttons and tries to ignore the sweat cooling on his skin.
When the doors open, he steps inside and stares at the panel of floor options. When the doors close, he is still staring at it. He doesn't know what to select. It won't make a difference where he goes. He stands and stares until a chime sounds, reminding him he has yet to make a choice. Instead of picking any of the many numbers, he slowly sinks to the floor. Once seated, he moves back until he is wedged in the corner where two walls meet. He bends his knees and rests his forearms on top them. Where his hands dangle between his legs, his fingers loosely catch one another. Too tired to support a head heavy with the weight of nightmares and memories, he tips back his skull and lets the metal wall hold it. From his new position, he can easily see his distorted reflection in the glass ceiling.
The glass must be warping his image. Or maybe he really is a figure blurred along the edges, colors faded to inconsequential smears of gray and blue. It probably doesn't matter anyway.
There's a slight jolt, the barest hint of a tugging motion, and then the car begins to sink. Steve's eyes drift to the level indicator on the wall and he watches the numbers scroll down. Someone must have called the elevator. Someone will be waiting. Someone will see him huddled in a miserable heap in the corner unless he pulls himself together and stands up. He feels hollowed out. A carved up, gutted shell. But somehow he digs deeper, pushes past the exhaustion, shoves aside memories worse than phantom nightmares, and finds the strength to haul his body upright. He moves away from the supporting wall and stands on his own in the center of the car. His posture is disciplined, feet planted shoulder's width apart, hands held loosely behind his back. The sharp lines of his body contrast the parade rest he stands at. Now that he's upright, the stranger in the glass above him is much closer now. Steve flicks his gaze up, his shadow's gaze comes down, and then the doors are gliding open, breaking the spell and all Steve's attention is put into maintaining his outward calm.
Tony is standing just to the side of the elevator doors, his back to the wall, arms crossed, eyes skittering around his surroundings. Steve sees him jump when the bell chimes impatiently. Tony blinks at him and then all the tension melts out of the billionaire's body. His arms fall to his sides, revealing the dull glow of the arc reactor. Tony takes a step forward but doesn't enter the car.
"Couldn't sleep either, huh?" Tony starts.
Steve doesn't answer. A stray bead of sweat trickles away from his temple and he dashes it away with the back of his hand before resuming his position. Tony squints at him, trying to figure him out.
"Were you on your way to get a snack?" Tony inquires, half-curiosity, half-teasing.
The mere mention of food turns Steve's knotted stomach and he chooses to shrug instead. Let Stark think what he will.
"Mind if I join you?" Tony phrases it like a question but the relief in his eyes, and the fact that he just came from the kitchen, turns it into a self-made invitation.
Steve could turn him down, refuse his company. Tell him how vomiting in the sink stole what little appetite he might have had. Mention that he isn't even here by choice but only because Stark called the elevator to this floor.
But that would mean Steve has to let his guard down. To become transparent. Admit weakness.
And when he thinks of two years' worth of horror inside his head, waiting to spill out in a torrent of violence, hatred and despair, he looks at Tony and he knows he can't. The bags under Tony's eyes and the oil stains on his rumpled clothes tell Steve more than enough about the scientist's state of mind. Steve can't dump his problems on him, not when Tony has more than enough of his own. Tony's not strong enough. Tony's running from demons and a man in motion can't be leaned on.
So Steve nods and leads the way down the hallway, Tony following close behind.
The kitchen is quiet. Where Steve blends with the silence, melting into it flawlessly like a cup of water poured out over wet pavement, Tony feels the need to break it, opening and shutting cupboard doors to collect coffee and mugs, turning the faucet on and off, flipping switches, pressing buttons. He keeps up a narrative of what he's doing. Steve listens. He always listens. But Tony's words hold as much meaning as the softly gurgling coffee machine and Steve settles into a nearby chair and simply watches Tony regain his emotional balance.
Once the fresh brew is portioned out equally, Tony sets a mug on the tabletop in front of Steve. Steve accepts it reflexively, palms cupping the heated ceramic. Leaning against the counter, Tony stops his commentary to sip at his drink. They stay that way for a while, Tony drinking and Steve not. Tony's gaze makes several circuits around the room. He doesn't often make eye contact with Steve, but he often looks in his direction, as if checking to make sure Steve is still there. Steve is. He always is. The digital numbers on the microwave clock scroll up and up. It's only when Tony goes to get himself a refill that Steve notices that his fingers are burning. He pulls them away from his untouched glass and sets them in his lap.
Instead of returning to his place against the counter, Tony drops down in a chair opposite Steve. He opens his mouth, shuts it. Clears his throat and finds his voice.
"Do you ever regret it?" he asks.
Steve thinks he knows what Tony's referring to. He thinks he does but Tony can be sporadic and he's probably looking for a specific answer so Steve shouldn't presume anything.
"That's a little vague," Steve says, putting just the right amount of nonchalance into his tone to prod Tony for more information without making him feel embarrassed for the question.
"The whole crashing the plane into the ocean thing." Tony's hand spins in the air, an outlet for nervous energy.
Steve nods to himself. So it is exactly what he thought it was going to be.
"No," he responds immediately, truthfully.
The corner of Tony's mouth twitches upward, as if he's nodding to himself because the answer is exactly what he thought it was going to be. His fingers wrap around his mug, spinning it slowly on its base. "The sacrifice play. It never bothers you?" he pushes, a bit of coffee escaping over the lip of the glass.
Steve watches the liquid trail across the ceramic and pool on the tabletop. "No," he repeats, immediately, honestly. He turns his focus from the spilled coffee to Tony, meeting the scientist's gaze squarely. They both know they're not talking about Hydra ships and frozen oceans.
"Huh," Tony says. He gulps down the rest of his drink and leaves the table. After dropping the mug in the sink, he stretches his arms over his head theatrically. "Well, I think it's time for bed." He crosses the kitchen to the door. "Don't expect to see me again before noon." A final wave in farewell and then he's gone.
The light bulb above the table is reflected in the puddle of coffee. Steve retrieves a napkin and dries up the mess. He takes his own cup to the sink, and as the contents circle the drain, he reflects on how relieved he is that Tony asked the right question. The easy question. The one he can answer without giving away the black filth crammed inbetween the cracks in his rib cage. Saving the world is not something he could ever regret but there are other things.
Things he's seen. Things he's done. Things he didn't stop from being done when he should have. It's all in the past now. A past that can't be changed. A past that changes him.
With determined resolution, he dumps out the coffeepot. Quickly, he washes up the dishes, leaving them to dry on the edge of the counter by the sink. He wipes his damp hands on a cotton towel and flicks the light off when he leaves.
On a completely unrelated note, has anyone seen the trailer for Chris Evans' upcoming movie, Gifted? It looks so cute! It kind of reminds me of his role in the movie Push.