Sacrifice
Captain America sat on the Metrorail, fidgeting. He was wearing normal, civilian clothing, so he was actually just Steve Rogers, but whenever children recognized and pointed at him and asked for his autograph, it was Captain America who signed their little slips of paper. He was fidgeting because he was in Washington, D.C. and on his way to the World War II memorial there. Miss Potts was with him, for which he was very grateful because one, she knew the area and kept him from getting lost multiple times a day, and two, she was one of those blessed individuals who didn't have to constantly badger him about 'how he was feeling.'
Truth be told, he don't know what he was feeling right now. He had been wanting to visit the memorial for almost two months, ever since he found out about it. Fury had kept him busy with assignments, missions, and publicity stunts until just recently. Even this wasn't a complete vacation; arrangements had been made for a small camera crew to meet up with them and document Steve's visit to the memorial, because what could generate better press than Captain America visiting the Capitol on the Fourth of July?
Mostly, he was nervous. Because he didn't know what to say. He wanted honor his fallen comrades with an eloquent speech that would bring the memory of their sacrifice to the surface for all to admire. He wanted to grab the shoulders of the oblivious Americans riding the rail with him and shake them and make them understand that it was the heroic actions of the past that allowed such luxurious freedom today. But he just didn't have the words.
Miss Potts touched his forearm gently, indicating that this was their stop. As they exited the train, two eager journalists and a cameraman hurried up to greet them. Pepper graciously took care of introductions and small talk as they walked toward the memorial, leaving Steve alone with his thoughts. Thank god for Pepper.
As they approached the many-pillared monument, the camera crew had Steve wait at the sidewalk so they could film his approach. The sun was high in the sky, but not oppressively hot, and the crowds milling about were fairly small given that it was a holiday. He drummed his fingers on his pocket while he waited for the camera guy to get situated. What was he going to say?
He approached the memorial with appropriate levels of state and decorum, but he actually wanted to run. Run away from the ghosts of the dead – of his friends – which surely lingered in this place. He stepped inside in the oval and spent several minutes contemplating in front of the fountain. He felt no ghostly presences, which was a comfort, but he still had no words to do justice to memories of the men and women honored here.
Ignoring the camera and the small crowd that had started to recognize him, he strolled around the wall, reflecting on the relief images. Soon he was lost in memories – the enlistment lines, the training camp, his first deployment to Europe. The sound of automatic gunfire, the feel of wind whipping his face as he parachuted into enemy territory, the tastelessness of K rations. The memories came thick and fast, but still he could think of nothing to say. Not a single phrase to encapsulate his experience or honor his companions. He could practically feel the cameraman zooming in on his face, waiting for him to say something.
The living legend spent many long moments staring at the freedom wall covered in stars. He stood still for so long that the camera man actually hoisted his bulky equipment down to the ground and waited for him to move on. Steve stared at the stars, all four thousand of them, and the thought that he had refused to acknowledge in the months since his revival surfaced abruptly and assaulted his consciousness. What was it all for? The stars seemed to mock him and his ideals. What was it all for, Steve? Huh? Why did we have to die, Steve? The simple design emphasized the excessive loss of life that the wall represented. Steve had no answers for himself or the sparkling stars.
He turned and looked at the small crowd that had gathered behind him. Tourists, mostly, with cameras and backpacks and 'Your Guide to the Nation's Capitol" pamphlets stuck in their pockets. A little girl with bouncing pigtails sat on her father's shoulders, looking at him. When he met her gaze, she smiled, showing two missing front teeth. She clutched a small flag in her hand, which she waved at him in greeting. Behind the small crowd, Steve saw layer upon layer of humanity, picnicking in the park, running in the grass, strolling on the sidewalks. The feeling of celebration was unbridled and tangible, as if he could reach out and scoop a handful of patriotism out of the air. He looked back at the little girl, and his heart suddenly ached with the promise of her life laid out before her, and he wished with all his might that she might live in the happiness and freedom of this day, everlastingly. And then, he knew. He turned back to the monument.
Without preamble, the words came to him. The exact right words; the only words that needed saying. He placed his hand on the cool, white marble and bowed his head.
"Thank you, my friends, for everything."