Disclaimer: I don't own Marvel.
A calloused hand rubs across a furrowed brow, the only sign of stress the worn and weary man allows. The man's broad shoulders are hunched over a rickety work table, watching that movement might lead one to believe that he was attempting to merge with the suffocating shadows around him. Pale blue eyes wrench themselves from the yellowed documents, attempting to identify the not-quite foreign objects that surround his large form. The all-encompassing darkness runs it's gnarled fingertips along the fringes of inanimate darkness; burying all of the wonders one may hope to discover in a cloak of obscurity.
The (let's call him Shadow Man for now shall we?) gives up his mentally-ordained task of taking in his surroundings, after he promptly realized his attempts at finding anything were in vain. The Shadow Man pushes feverishly against the table, receiving a groan from not only the work table, but his own bones as well. He stumbles gracelessly as he shifts his weight, but quickly composes himself after nearly toppling to the floor. The scowl that works its way upon his chiseled features is not novel nor unfamiliar, unfortunately. The Shadow Man knows this expression well.
No. The Shadow Man is not a very good name for this one. I've decided upon a very different one. This man's name will be Steve. Steve Rogers.
Seemingly experienced footfalls furiously connect with the unrelenting forest floor, all fallen leaves and foliage is trampled underfoot. The ground is a fickle creature, it begins to shift beneath the footsteps, causing the feet and its person to connect harshly with its unforgiving surface. The person's dark and bleary eyes blink unseeingly at the mottled grey sky, the clutch of unconsciousness readily wraps itself around the being.
Muted surroundings do little to allude to the passage of time, the uncouth and almost intrusive sky does little to cooperate, the sun is impossible to locate in the sea of dense and swirling clouds. The unconscious man finally stirs after hours of stillness, his slight frame curling in upon itself. A shudder rakes its way across the man's exposed body, wearing nothing but a pair of rugged trousers that hang loosely from his hips.
The newly awakened being barely manages to fight back a wince as he shifts his body into a sitting position, quickly becoming aware of himself and his surroundings.
He quickly came to the conclusion that he had no idea where he was. wonderful. However, finding himself in precarious situations such as this, for example, was not a novel experience to a man such as Bruce Banner. At this point, he was mildly pleased at the fact that he was still wearing pants. He'd have to thank Stark himself for that one. It was really cold outside of the lab.
The biologist hissed after an attempt to pick himself up off of the musty ground. He predicted that he had broken at least two ribs, perhaps three. The Other Guy must had taken one hell of a beating if he was correct. His face became taut with concentration. If only he could remember something anything, that could help him out of his predicament. He could usually recollect something even if it was just a feeling of male violent rage or sound of thundering footsteps. He focused on a feeling that was beginning to take root in his gut. Something was wrong. The Other Guy shifted in the back of his mind. Something was very, very wrong.
Bruce frowned. He needed to do this step by step. Hands and feet: sore, but fine nonetheless. Limbs: sore, but to be expected. Chest: calculated three broken ribs. Head: most likely a mild concussion. Prognosis: As long as he didn't jostle anything, he'll be fine for now. So get moving, Banner.
A shaky breath was drawn in, his arm wrapped around his ribcage protectively. He pushed against the ground, wincing as he stumbled to his feet.
Collecting himself, Bruce quickly took note of his surroundings. Deciduous trees enclosed him in a small field, which meant he was still somewhere near New York. Probably. He glanced at the horizon, absorbing the sight of gaunt buildings. Few rays of sunlight permeated the pollution-riddled clouds. His foggy mind traced the outline of the iconic Avenges Tower, relief surging over him. Applying slight pressure to his tender ribs, he began his trek through the wilderness.
It was going to be a very long day.
Steve diligently erased the eye. It was simply too large, too disproportionate when he compared it to the rest of the head. Most of all, it didn't capture the smile he wanted. In Peggy's eyes.
He closed his own and sighed, warm breath curling around youthful features. He slouched alone in a tangible silence before finally opening them. Azure eyes stared blankly ahead. Those eyes were too old for a face like that.
Now that young Dawn had peeked over the horizon and had bathed the city with warm light, one can finally observe the once hidden objects that were squirreled away in the sunlight-awaken room. The apartment was surprisingly bland. Though not a speck of dust was visible to the naked eye, the room was surprisingly musty and grey. The furniture was dated, the antiques were gifts from SHIELD to make him feel "more at home" in this new world. The walls were beige and naked, giving no illusion to an outsider about who Steve Rogers was. It was empty, and quite lonely. To Steve, it sure as hell didn't feel like home.
His new StarkPhone chirped. The device wasn't even a week old, the last one-he told Stark- he had accidentally tapped the screen just a little too hard, much to Tony's dismay. That was a lie, of coarse.
Stale anger and muted hatred of his new life had surged through him with new vigor one night, but he was able to compose himself before he did anything drastic. However, his 'brand-spankin' new' -Tony's words, not his- phone did not survive the endeavor.
Someone had texted him.
Bright, blocky letters revealed a name. It was Sam Wilson. He smiled. It was an offer for him to go to the VA building with him, he read. His weak smile grew larger that he should take him to the secretary's desk to make him look cooler. It was always fun to be with Sam, whether they were running (more like Sam desperately sprinting after him in a desperate attempt to catch up with Steve and listening to that cursed phrase 'on your left' as Steve passed him again and again) or just hanging out at the park, sometimes Sam would invite him over to his place for a couple of beers.
He liked Sam, he really did. He was kind, sympathetic, and a great teammate, but he wasn't Bucky.
Bucky. He winced slightly at the name.
Perhaps going out was a good idea after all.
Holy crap it's been a long time since the last time I've posted anything. I've been busy. And very lazy. Don't know when I'll update again, and I don't know where I'm going with this story, to be honest. It just popped into my head, so I wrote it down. I looked at my old fanfics- they're all awful. Hope this one isn't that bad.
I promised myself I wouldn't get back into the Marvel fandom, and here I am now. I have no regrets.
Reviews are greatly appreciated, and constructive criticism is very helpful. Have a great day, wherever you are!