A/N: Another story for the Of Time series timeline! This one will be of a slightly darker tone than what is the norm of my writing...I guess to combat the fluff I am inevitably prone to producing. Possible triggers for death, injuries, bleeding, war (all in dreams), and slight PTSD (not in dreams). There, you're warned .Also, this story is UNBETA'ED. This is mostly due to my personal schedule being a little different from others', and therefore harder to coalesce with someone else's. As such, I do proofread, edit, and restructure my own writing. I try my best, but I am not perfect.

I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any possible pop culture references made in the text. I just own the original character, Holly. Her climes and times in regards to Steve Rogers can be read about in the Of Time series of Captain America/Avengers stories I have (check out the My Stories tab on my page).

Lastly—I'm not a doctor of any kind, let alone a psychologist, etc. If you're having any sort of trouble, please seek help in whatever way you can.

Now that's all said, read on!


November, 2014

The air was cool, holding a hint of winter beneath the autumn chill. The grass on the ground was browning as the seasons turned. The pine needles of the tree break where they were hiding shifted and slanted under their boots, the deadened scent overlaying the whiffs of smoke and gunpowder. Grey clouds cast the land in shadow, light blotted and muted as they waited. It was as if no time at all had passed. His team, his friends, stone-faced and sure, stood with him. Falsworth said something biting, Dugan answered back with a smirk and tip of his cap as Morita rolled his eyes. Jacques and Gabe conversed lowly, pointing at the ridge ahead. The target, a small warehouse sitting out beyond a field, awaited them. Sharing a fast look with Bucky, Captain America nodded, gesturing with two fingers and telling them to move out.

A simple assault, he knew what it was meant to be. What it had become was chaos and destruction. The raid had gone awry, HYDRA's forces swarming over the Howling Commandos like a plague of locusts. One after another streaming forward, Allied forces following behind as he led the way. Black armor, black masks made them look like encroaching demons, soulless bodies crashing and hollering as they met in the middle. A hail of fire rained down upon them, his shield deflecting all. However, the deflection of the bullets caused them to launch around him, with no control exerted over where they would fly. One struck Morita, another pierced Dugan, both men falling in quick succession. His friends, he was killing his friends in the act of protection.

What was happening?

"Steve…"

The distant cry was lost amidst the others. Comrades, fellow soldiers fell, torn to shreds as he ran amongst them. The crack of gunfire continued to echo around him, joining in with distant whistle and pop of the aerial assault. Pelting bullets pierced the earth, pierced the bodies surrounding him, and he could do nothing but run towards them all. His hands reached, tried to pull the men to safety, but his fingers gripped at air, gripped at sleeves and shoulders as they collapsed, broken and bleeding. The ground beneath his feet rocked; another bomb had been dropped, that one much closer than the others. He could see the fire pluming in the distance, the flames consuming all and flickering over the fallen.

"Steve."

The voice called again, the feminine tone clashing terribly with the cacophony around him. He dropped to his knees, impervious to physical pain even as he let his shield fall. Bullets whizzed by, passed through his arms and legs, one piercing his gut. He bled, but felt nothing. He could only stare at his friends, dead around him. They had followed him into battle, followed him into war, and it had cost them everything. He had cost them everything; he wasn't quick enough, wasn't good enough to stop them from dying. More wails, more falling echoed. The clouded sky reflected fire, rained ash, and he was choking on his own breath. The crunch of boots caught his attention, drew his gaze as they stopped in front of him. Slowly, he looked up, looked into the eyes of the enemy. Eyes of dark, intense hatred, face reddened by more than a mere accident. A ragged flag was in his hands, the ripped stars and stripes standing out starkly against the cold, black leather of the enemy's gloves. He sneered up at him, and the other merely sniffed, winding the cloth around the broken captain's neck.

He would choke him with his own country's symbol, hang him in the name of its principles. And he could not stop him. Arms were locked at his sides, frozen in place as the cloth constricted, each breath threatening to be his last...

"STEVEN!"

Finally, the female voice pierced through, white light searing his gaze as the world went silent. At once, he jerked awake, the haze of sleep broken by fear and fury. Legs and fists twisted and flailed, tangled up in sheets. His eye snapped open, the black and red of the enemy's victory fading in the low lamplight. The bodies of his comrades, his friends, faded away as he took stock of the green-grey sheets of the bed, the dresser by the far wall. Deep, shaking gasps rumbled in his chest as he dragged his eyes away from the stillness and calm, his body turning to face the opposite side of the bed. There stood Holly, flannel sleeves turned up at the elbows, her hands halfway reaching out to him as he struggled back into reality. Still, she did not touch him; rather, she let him regain his bearings on his own, something she had learned was necessary as he pulled himself away from the edge of darkness.

Steve Rogers blinked, breathed, and then groaned as he realized what was going on. It had happened. Again. It was a nightmare, another nightmare.

"Holly," he muttered, voice half-ragged with sleep as he pushed himself to sit up. Resting against the headboard, he watched as she combed through her loose hair, the tie around her wrist binding it back and allowing the starkness of the shadows under her eyes to be seen. Trying to catch his breath still, he turned his palm over, beckoning her to come to him. "Doll…"

"Are you okay?" she nearly whispered, kneeling onto the bed and shuffling over to his side. Slowly, her fingers threaded through the disarrayed strands of his blond hair, softening the spikes it had been drawn up to in slumber. Her wide brown eyes peered at him, concern and care lacing the irises. "You know where you are?"

Slowly, he nodded, the thump of his heart still resonating in his ear. "I'm, I'm…here."

Gesturing at the bedroom, at the door to the rest of the apartment, it was all he could do to convey that he understood where he was. He was not on the battlefield, or caught up in a mission from hell. He was home; he was in D.C. with her. She dipped her chin at him, the answer good enough for her. Leaning forward, she pressed a kiss to his forehead and inhaled sharply. Now that he was awake and aware of his surroundings, she could proceed to the next step.

"Hold on, sweetie," she murmured, noticing his hard swallow bobbing his Adam's apple. As she began to move back toward the edge of the bed, his hand shot out, snatching at her wrist (the one without the splint; her recovery after crashing Sam's SUV was on track, and he didn't want to mess that up). Glancing back up at him, at his distressed blue gaze, she stopped. His throat caught, unable to allow him to ask her to stay. Carefully, she brought up her palm up to his cheek, cradling his face softly. Eyelids fluttered shut, and he leaned into the touch, his grip relaxing minutely. Stroking her thumb along his cheekbone, she promised, "I'll be right back."

A few more seconds passed, and he let his grasp slacken, let her maneuver away from him. Swiftly, she disappeared down the hall, her quiet footfalls absorbed by his harsh breathing. Steve put his head in his hands as the rush and slap of running water echoed from two separate places. Scrubbing his red-rimmed eyes, he took in deep breaths, calming himself little by little. The cool sweat of his brow was dashed away, making him aware of the slickness on his back. Picking up the hem of his shirt, he pushed off the sheets tangled around his hips, swinging his legs over the side of the mattress as he pulled the article off. Letting drop to the floor, he rested his elbows on his knees, glimpsing the bedroom door as it creaked open out the corner of his eye. His guard had not dropped, even though he knew it was just Holly returning with a glass of water.

"Here. Drink slowly," she reminded him gently, letting him take the glass from her as she stepped up to his side. The mattress dipped slightly as she sat down next to him, watching him take his time and drinking deeply. The cup was set aside, half-emptied as he sat up straighter.

"Thank you," he muttered, the taut set of his muscles starting to relax.

"Brought you this, too," she said, proffering the item in her other hand. A wet washcloth dangled from her fingers. The next part of the jerry-rigged recovery process, the next step to get him away from the nightmare and root him back in the real world. Though he did not wake her often for that part, she had participated before. And woken up to the evidence when she hadn't.

Taking the washcloth, he nodded before swiping at his face with it. "Again, thanks."

"You're welcome."

Moving to drop it on the nightstand, Holly stopped him with a shake of her head. Quirking his brow, he handed the wet cloth back to her, curious as to what she wanted to do with it. Balling it up a little, her free hand tapped at his shoulder, prompting him to lean forward slightly. Scooting closer, she gingerly pressed the cloth upon the nape of his neck, and he closed his eyes at the small flush of relief. His own heat eventually made the cloth warm, the sogginess of it clinging. She slipped from his side, darting into the bathroom to soak it under cold water and wring out the excess once more. When she and the cool relief returned, he sighed, the slight tremor in his hand stilled as he cupped her braced knee, squeezing it tenderly in appreciation (nary a cry came from her when he did so, which was a good sign; she was healing well enough). A peck grazed his shoulder, feather-light and dry on his skin.

"It was…it was a bad one, huh?" she broached cautiously. Though it had not been the first time that her super-soldier boyfriend had been racked by bad dreams, she could tell that it had gone beyond monsters and bullies beating him up, beating him down. The sharpness in his form told her as much; it was worse. It was the first time she'd had to scream him awake, against what she had read and he himself had told her to do. She'd been too frightened to let him continue sleeping, just from looking at his broken expression and curling body while locked in it when his shaking woke her.

In the back corner of her mind, she wondered if the sweat tracks she'd seen earlier on his face were partially tears, and it made her heart shrivel to contemplate it.

His eye-roll, however, caught her off-guard. "Never had a good nightmare before, so yeah."

The bite of his tone made her flinch, and her brow furrowed, affronted by it. While she understood that the snap had more to do with himself than with her remark, she didn't think it was deserved. She was just trying to help.

"Excuse me," she retorted, doing her best to keep the cattiness out of her tone. Evidently, she had failed, given the fast glance he shot her. Her shoulders shrugged, and she wrapped her arms around her middle, withdrawing into herself as he slowly realized how he'd sounded. His face creased, and he blew out a sigh.

"Oh, geez...look, I, I'm sorry," he stumbled over the words, scratching the back of his neck and staring at his feet. It wasn't his intention to make her feel worse by trying to make him feel better. Tiredly, he continued, "It's just...memories. Sort of. More like memories that were twisted into something worse."

Holly looked at Steve, at the exhaustion and the muted sorrow in his irises. At the heartache and the hurt. She expelled a slow breath out her nose, accepting his apology with a nod, not actually upset with him. She took his hand in hers, slotting the fingers together and butting her shoulder up against his.

"If it's okay for me to ask, were they recent or old ones that got warped?" she asked hesitantly. It was unlikely that he would open up about his nightmares (he rarely did, particularly with the ones she knew in her heart were the most painful, or graphic), but from what she knew of him and his life, he had plenty of inspiration lurking in his subconscious. And with all that had happened in the past couple of months—the Halloween raids, Bucky's return and subsequent disappearance the month prior to that, her own meddling—it was hardly surprising that the buried feelings in him would force their way out.

"Old," he affirmed, taking another sip of water. Setting the glass onto the night stand, his hand curled a little harder around hers, a little rougher as the flashes of the dream scorched his mind. The residual frustration and fright in his soul wormed its way out, pouring from his mouth as he was, suddenly, moved to confession. The waterfall from his tongue was unstoppable, the honesty unnerving. "War isn't glamorous, you know. Tried to watch a couple of the movies about the war, just to see what people thought, came up with…the real thing is very different. It isn't some bold stand and speeches made and glory waving you on. It's dirt, blood, and death around every corner. So many things are thrown at you in the space of a single second—a bomb, bullets, another person sometimes—and you only have the smallest moment of time to react. To survive, to make it to the next moment. It's good people bleeding and dying, sometimes for no better reason than to be caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or with the wrong company. Watching those people die in the field, and knowing there isn't a damn thing you can do to change it. It's making a decision that could either cost you everything or nothing." Steve grabbed the water glass again, emptying it in one long pull. Beside him, Holly sat mutely, the blood in her face draining as he spoke. "It's pain on top of hurt, and still moving from one place to the next. Because you have to. Because you need to. And no matter how far you come or how much things change back home, it will still be there, in the back of your mind." There he paused, his fingers gripping tighter still, emphasizing each word as they rattled out of his mouth. The smallest whimper in her throat finally registered, and immediately his hand was loose in hers. Instead, he began picking at his sleep pants with his free one, concentrating on that as his voice dropped lower. "Because once you live it, you can't ever forget it."

Telling her had not been a conscious decision. Something in him, though, had compelled him to speak. He knew she would never really understand what he relived in his dreams, what had been contorted and transformed due to his own feelings and inadequacies. There was so much in his life that she didn't understand. But she tried, was trying, had figured out a few things for herself. And she would continue to try, even knowing that he could fall farther still. Knowing that things like that would not be a one-off or easily put aside. Instead, she held his hand, her dark eyes focusing on a point on the wall and her jaw set. He looked at her as her brain raced furiously, a slow, steady answer coming out after his wave of misery had dissipated.

"It's part of you, part of your history. I don't think you should forget it," Holly enunciated, palm retracted from his and laying on the bare skin of his back. Smooth strokes coursed up and down as she consoled him, the warmth of her touch soothing him. Shaking her head, she observed, "At least, you shouldn't forget the ones who gave their lives for nothing less than what they believed in. But it's not the whole. There's more in there than the hard memories. So many good ones, ones that you need to hang onto even when it hurts. Even when the bad ones show up."

Every word was chosen with care, with the best of intentions. And while they did not erase the hurt and the bloody truth of the past, of his previous existence, they did alleviate something inside him. No ridicule, no quip or sarcastic joke. No willful ignorance. Just some simple truth, and for that he was grateful. Steve couldn't forget it (wouldn't ever let himself forget it, his mind promised), but it could be laid to rest, put aside. He scanned her face; he saw the hint of hopefulness there, optimism there despite the stiff realism. For that, he kissed her, the hard, passionate entreaty met with a squeak and a sigh (and perhaps a low mewl, buried deep within, the slight reverberations barely perceived by his enhanced hearing. In any event, he was stirred, and it compelled him to deepen the embrace). One arm curled around her waist, his other hand going into her hair—the binder stymied him a little, but it was knocked loose enough so he could push into the soft strands. She cupped his jaw, meeting him stroke for stroke as their lips pressed, tongues sliding and brushing against one another. It was over all too quickly, but progressing any further would be a mistake. Comfort offered in such a way would hold a note of sourness upon completion, and he did not want to spoil their first time together in that manner.

"What can I do?" she wondered when they broke apart, licking her lips and brushing a fingertip over his clavicle. Having an altogether different reason to catch his breath, he rested his forehead against hers, eyes screwing shut against the last ebb of fear and pain coursing up.

"Just…just stay up with me, please," he begged quietly, his shoulders slumping a little. It made him feel small, little and lost. "I can't go back to sleep just yet. I don't want a repeat."

They shared a grimace at that. To go through it all twice in one night was too much, for both of them. Fidgeting with the sleeves of her flannel (having rolled them down for that specific purpose), Holly nodded resolutely. If it would help him, she would sacrifice her sleep without a qualm.

"Okay. Um, well…" she trailed off, trying to think of something to occupy his mind, bring him away from the blackness entirely. Lighting upon an idea, her head jerked up, and her eyebrows inclined. "Actually, you know the book I'm writing?"

He spiked an eyebrow in return. Of course he knew what book she was talking about; it had been a major project that she'd been working through for four years, roughly.

"Yeah?"

"Well, I was kind of stuck on a passage. Not really sure of the wording," she told him. Hooking a thumb towards the door, she offered, "I've got it printed off. You want to read it, and let me know how it sounds?"

A distraction, both of them recognizing it for what it was. It was one that he would gladly take.

"Sure," he acquiesced, one more kiss given before she went off to fetch the papers. It wasn't a quick fix, didn't magically make it all go away, but it was enough to ground him with her. Long minutes passed in which he looked over the papers, reading quickly as she explained her troubles with the text. He wasn't sure what he could do to help; his talents resided along the lines of strategic planning and sketching, not so much with constructing a narrative. Still, she kept him engaged, kept his mind occupied as she asked whether or not the main character's motivations seemed sound, or if there was too much introspection. Shrugging, he gave her the only idea his mind could come up: interspersing the introspection as the young, empowered girl escaped her captors' grasp, pointing out how a paragraph or two could be moved to help with the flow, as she termed it. Her dark eyes lit up, a smacking kiss pressed to his cheek in thanks when she mentally restructured a couple paragraphs in her mind and found that his opinion was on the mark. Sure enough, an hour had been passed by that point, her eyelids drooping as she retrieved a pen from the bedside table, jotting down notes to make adjustments in the morning. Her appreciation for his help knew no bounds, she'd reassured him when he prompted her to lay the papers aside and go back to sleep.

Just as his for hers knew no bounds as well, he had whispered as she curled up beside him, her head on his chest. Lulled by the strong, steady beat of his heart and his calmed breathing, she soon was gone, her fingers tangled with his over his stomach. Steve blinked up at the ceiling, lids heavy as her warmth was absorbed. It wasn't a cure; he knew that for a fact, knew that what was inside his heart and mind could not be eradicated with a kiss and a distraction. But it was enough to calm him, bring him back down. It was enough for him to actively reach for his phone on the nightstand, a low-voiced message left for his therapist, once appointed at Fury's behest and had now become somewhat of a (unobtrusive, but necessary) fixture in the background of his life. It had been awhile since they had talked; it would probably be best to remedy that as soon as possible.

If for no other reason than that he wanted to get through the night holding his girl, unafraid of the world inside his head. As unafraid as he was at that moment, was his last conscious thought before turning off the lamp and letting the darkness of the night settle around them both.