It was a deep pain in his chest that pulled him slowly into the blinding lights and bustling sounds, an ache that seemed to pulse through his body until his toes curled and his fists clenched. The sounds were no longer whispers of twisting anxieties and fears, but rather the louder buzz from the outer, real world.
It was this conclusion alone that persuaded Steve to open his eyes, for the first time he could remember.
His body tensed, his breath hitched, and his fingernails dug into the ground beneath him as he braced himself for the newest horror, the wrenching heartbreak and danger he had found himself trapped him for, as long as he could tell, his entire damn life.
It threw him out of the loop (he almost smiled when recalled Bucky saying that to him so often in their youth, but Bucky was dead), therefore, to find that nothing greeted him but the stillness of a hospital room.
Steve felt like he was teetering at the edge of a cliff, where a small breeze could make him fall indefinitely, unaware of anything beyond his immediate senses – his mind was tired, confused, and delicate, like porcelain. He let his eyes flutter shut, because it hurt, goddammit. Instead, he wondered what he must have done to receive such peace. Steve Rogers did not live in peace, or not that he could remember.
There were no screams, no enemies trying to steal his only loved ones away, no betrayals, rejections, corpses, ghosts – the list went on and on in his head, unable to end.
The ache was fading, but he felt worn and overused. He needed to be repaired, he thought idly, before almost grinning at the image of Tony Stark trying to do just that.
They were dead, they were gone, all because of him, how dare he –
"Steve!" A relieved cry said from his left, but it sounded like it came from far away, muffled as if he were still underwater, getting frozen by the damned ocean. Which was a very big possibility, Steve realised. Because the voice sounded just like Bucky, and Bucky was dead. Gone.
Still, instinctively, Steve opened his eyes with great effort, almost giving up half way through.
Is this what Atlas feels, with such weight of the sky upon him? Steve thought tiredly. He remembered distantly a god of great thunder telling him the tale, a tale that left him reeling.
Opening his eyes may have been a great feat, but Steve did so anyway. He always did, despite it often resulting in the worst.
Bucky's brown orbs immediately were the first thing to be seen, shining with worry. And God, it felt so familiar, so real, that Steve hopefully wondered whether it was really him.
The possibility of Bucky being alive and safe, however, made him want to cry. Fuck, he was close to actually crying - his mind was in a state of disrepair, and he hated it.
Bucky was dead. He had seen him fall, watched as Hydra destroyed him, witnessed his mutilated corpse drag itself towards him as he screamed.
He, Steve Rogers, knew that Bucky was beyond dead, all because of him.
"Stevie?" The voice, Not-Bucky, was beginning to sound unsure. Steve didn't want to answer, not that he was sure he could have anyway; his throat was dry, rubbed raw.
There was a hand suddenly on his shoulder, and for a moment all Steve saw was blackened, frosted finger tips, digging into his skin. The image flickered and died, but Steve had already moved, rocking back so far in his bed it scraped across the floor.
"N-n-" Words could not form, jumbled groans sounding from his lips as he watched Bucky's face fall at his violent flinch.
Why? He should hate me. Steve was confused, unable to understand anything. Bucky is dead.
"Steve?" Not-Bucky tried again, his voice soft enough to make Steve's heart slow, even just a little.
"Is he…with it?" Another voice joined in, and suddenly there was talking everywhere, making his head throb. All noises merged into one long hum, making the room spin.
There was no screaming. Why was there no screaming?
Steve closed his eyes in fear that he would burst into tears, letting his body fall slowly back into unfeeling. It was better, he knew, if he stayed this way, blissfully unaware of the ice closing in around him, making him numb.
"He's shivering." A gentle voice said from the fray of noises, making the world still. It sounded like Peggy.
"Steve? Can you hear me?" Not-Bucky was trying to talk to him again. Steve didn't want to open his eyes, not ever again. If he did, he knew he would see more horrors the world left for him.
"Can you open your eyes for me, Steve?" Someone asked quietly – Bruce, Steve's mind managed to recognise – but Steve barely heard him over the roaring in his ears.
The deep pain was back, and it was almost a relief to him; this is what he understood, what he was used to. He could deal with pain. And maybe, maybe it would get so bad that he would forget that he was drowning, freezing slowly, trapped in an eternal hell.
A certain fact crossed his mind, and that spanned into a few more.
Bucky was dead, forever haunting Steve. The Avengers – if they were even real – did not like him, did not need him, and left him to drown.
So why was Bruce being so gentle?
He hadn't even known that hands were tracing his face, calloused fingers pausing just under his eyes.
"Come on, Steve. Just for a moment." Not-Bruce murmured, and Steve let out a choked gasp at how real it felt. But that was impossible, he knew that, despite his desperate wishing.
Still, his eyes were opening on their own accord apparently. Steve felt strangely detached from his body as they did so, his mind straying away from the images that flooded his vision. His glazed eyes watched the ceiling carefully, and he swore he saw a sky full of stars for just a second, like he had done in Brooklyn.
Life, he found, was mocking him, showing things unreachable, untouchable. His addled brain scrambled to make sense of it all, but Steve would much rather have it shut down, never to bother him again.
"Hold still, that's it…" a voice murmured before a blinding light was shone in his eyes. Its white beam pierced into Steve's skull, striking pain into its centre. Steve's throat let out a animalistic sound of protest, his body automatically flinging out a frantic hand to slap away the source. His cold fingers connected, slamming the small torch into the wall like a dart.
"Well, he's aware, I suppose." Someone said to his right, but Steve was loosing his marginal grip on focus. He let his body collapse in a boneless heap, feeling more hands catch him before he fell.
"Slow down there, man." Sam, possibly, said, slowly lowering him.
It was then, Steve noticed with more strange numbness, that all the Avengers were surrounding him, staring at him with wide eyes. Too many goddamn eyes.
God, he wished this torture would stop, and he would find himself back in the ice all over again. At least, then, he would feel nothing.
Everything was slipping, leaking out of his ears like trickling water. Why was his mind torturing him, to this extent? Hadn't he had enough? Why couldn't he just die in peace, in a frozen wasteland?
Bucky was dead. The Avengers did not need him, never existed, murdered by his own fucking hands –
"Something's wrong." Imaginary-Clint said. The voice was enough for Steve, who dragged his hands across his face as he let out a low moan. He didn't know what else to do.
He had watched, so many times, as they bled before him, or left him to die –
There were more sounds, so many sounds, but Steve couldn't comprehend any of them, only knowing the crushing feeling of fear.
Again, Atlas sprung to mind, but he was hardly holding up the sky, only his own sanity, it seemed. Through the gaps of his fingers, he could see the fake team rushing towards him, all talking with no sound coming out of their mouths.
In a deprived, inappropriate way, it looked amusing to see their lips move silently. All at once, he remembered that his Ma did the same when he was a child, making strange faces to make him laugh as he lay sick in bed. He laughed at the memory, burying his head into his hands as he let the sound grow in volume.
"What the fuck?" Someone said when the sounds grew silent. Steve found himself agreeing, because what the fuck was he right now?
It was cold, so cold, and he was drowning still. Nothing had changed.
Bucky was dead.
So were the Avengers, if they even existed at all.
He saw their corpses crawl towards him. Saw them bleeding as he remained frozen. And now, they were alive, and well? Steve had finally cracked.
"What's wrong with him?" Peggy – or Natasha – or nobody – asked into the silence that had suddenly embraced him. Steve shut his eyes, blocking out their faces for good, and tried to pull himself together. But his mind kept unravelling, apparently having experienced too much.
Steve wondered whether, if he opened his eyes again, he would find himself in the ice.