James,

I don't know why I'm writing this letter. I can't remember the last time I picked up a pen and paper to actually write something.

This is a mistake.

I know it's a mistake because I'm sober, and weirdly enough, almost all of my worst mistakes I made while sober. But you're not here anymore. You haven't been here for far too long. A year, eight months, and thirteen days, to be precise. Far too long to be without you, and not nearly enough time to make the wound any smaller or less painful.

I haven't healed, I haven't moved on.

I haven't forgotten.

Fuck that shit.

I'm still here, though, and that has to count for something, right? Honestly, I thought I would give up after maybe a few days. Losing you... I don't know what to say, there's just... There aren't any words sufficiently strong, or painful, or particular enough to express how I feel, how I felt. Maybe that's just how it is.

You know, they say that when women give birth, for a moment there, as their child is about to come out, they feel like they're going to die. Like they don't have enough strength to keep going, that they won't make it — literally like they're going to die within the next breath — and perhaps that's how I felt for weeks, and months: like any breath I was taking might be my last.

But they never were.

I drank too much, I slept perhaps a total of sixteen hours in the first month, I stood at the window looking at the outside world, trying to move, trying to force myself to do anything, but the hours just kept passing me by.

I don't know what to say, it all felt very irrelevant after you.

I would look at food and think about your favorite ice cream, or how you used to use your throwing knives to cut up apples, or how you drank milk from the bottle no matter how many glasses were available. I couldn't look at guns, or armory, or any military equipment whatsoever. I couldn't be at high places because you loved them, I couldn't wear anything green 'cuz it was your favorite color.

James, I just couldn't breathe.

We lived together for so long, seeing each other all the time, every day. Fuck, there was not a single part of my routine that you hadn't completely taken over. It's unfair, really, how much space you had taken without me ever realizing. I couldn't sleep in my own bed, or watch my own television, or do anything.

I remember once you told me that you would ruin me. You said it as a warning at the time. I believed you. I thought that you might, indeed, ruin me, but in other ways, which now sound so ridiculous compared to what truly happened.

You are gone. You're dead.

You fucking died.

I know this might sound so unfair, and egotistic, but I always thought that you, the super soldier... that I would get to die first. Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined being the one who lost someone, least of all losing you. It shouldn't have been possible.

And you know, it wasn't just unfair with me. You left Steve behind, too. I don't think he has forgiven you for that, to be honest.

I'm pretty sure he never will.

Sometimes, I'll have FRIDAY show me the camera from the gym, and Steve will be hanging a new punching bag, desperately hitting it, a line of wrecked ones sitting on the floor already. And he won't stop — not for hours. Until there aren't any bags left; until there's nothing to hit anymore. Then he'll just get really angry. I can hear the screams from my workshop on the bad days. Echoing around the walls — like a lost puppy calling for its missing mother and knowing it doesn't stand a chance on its own.

Steve lives here now. It sort of happened. After the funeral he came here, going straight for our bed, and dropping in the middle, like a sack of potatoes, exhausted and burned out. He wanted to be near all the things you had ever touched or owned, all the time. He wore your clothes, and used your body lotion, and read your books. It felt so surreal. I didn't even know what to say or how to respond, at first. So I just carried on. I sat at the edge of the bed and stared at the walls, speaking of all the moments you and I had together.

Someone had to know them but me, James. I couldn't stand being the only person who knew of the way you smiled around your toothbrush when I had your favorite toothpaste around, or the day you threw your mug at my head during a panic attack, then spent the next three days gluing it all together so that you could still drink from it because it was the one with the best handle.

What if I died next? What if I forgot? What if those moments were lost inside my brain, left scattered up here, with no one else to remember them fondly?

No, I couldn't risk it. Someone had to know them, and Steve was already there, so why not? I spoke, and he listened. I don't think he spoke a single word for the first two weeks. Not a single one, but he listened. I could tell he was listening to all the stories, 'cuz every once in a while his mouth would curl up, almost against his will, when I mentioned a weird quirk of yours.

We've been better these days. Somehow. Some version of better, I guess.

Natasha is the one handling the Avengers affairs now because Steve pretty much left, as well. He still goes on some missions, when the team asks for him, but it's getting less and less frequent now, and I think he wants to retire, too. Without you around, he looks his age for the first time.

Weirdly enough, we still haven't killed each other.

I know you wanted me to take care of him, James [thanks for that job, by the way, asshole], so that's what I'm trying to do, even though God knows that old man does not make it easy for me. He does talk about you a lot — which is nice.

Anyway.

I want to say that I'm sorry. I don't know if you're watching — I mean, I never believed in the afterlife deal, but then Thor happened, and space, and aliens, and galaxies, and powers way outside the world I thought I understood with math and numbers. So I don't know, maybe you are watching all this shit show, frowning at me for being such a mess. I hope you are. I hope you see how much you are loved and missed, James.

You deserve all this and more.

You do.

So, if you are watching, if you see me, us, then I hope you've seen Peter. I don't know what I'm doing with him ninety percent of the time. In fact, I mostly try to steer him in the opposite direction of my personal brand of chaos, with different levels of success. He's a good kid. A good person, even. Much better than the rest of us, that's for sure. He wants to do right by others and isn't afraid of getting his hands dirty in the process, which is more than most humans can claim, I'm afraid.

And I want to do right by him.

Yet, still, I lay awake most nights, wondering if I made a huge mistake by bringing him into this madness, giving him better weapons with which to hurt others and, mostly, himself. And you're not here to smack me around and tell me I'm being an idiot.

You're not here, and I never signed up to be a dad.

I never got a chance to save you, James. Please help me get a chance with this kid, alright?

Please. Just… help me.

I'm a mess on my own, and he deserves so much better. I can't be anyone's role model — you know that. But he needs help with this whole super-hero thing, and sometimes when he talks back at me, giving me a whole lot of sass, he reminds me of you, of what you could've been if the world wasn't such a mess, and we had done a better job at keeping you safe.

So, yeah, that's it. If Thor's right and Valhalla is a thing, then protect this kid, will you?

Goodbye,

you idiot.

Ps: I love you. I still do. I always will. Fuck you.

I'm so sorry I never said it earlier.

Author's Note: Hello. I thought I was done with this universe. It turns out I'm not. Maybe seeing Endgame left me traumatized about endings. Who knows. Maybe we'll be seeing more of this in the future.