(A.N: takes place after Damned If You Don't)
He takes another step. And another. And another.
With each step he takes, he wonders which will break him. His legs are shaky, unstable, yet his steps are steady and sure. How he keeps moving is a mystery even to himself.
The frigid air sinks its unforgiving claws into the flesh of his cheeks, into the meat of his stomach, the muscle of his heart.
His heart, racing, racing, racing- a free sprint followed by an abrupt halt.
His legs give out from under himself. He presses his back against the rough wall of rock while his unseeing eyes scan the dull landscape.
Fire replaces ice, engulfs him. It eats its way to the layer of kerosene that cruelly clings to the flesh inside his chest. The fire crawls inside of his lungs and thrives on the oxygen he feeds it, less and less with every breath. It pours out of his eyes and blazes a trail down his cheek and throat.
The fire burns, bright and unforgiving, unrelenting. Unstoppable. The kind of ever searing fire that only exists in the deepest pits of hell and within his very chest.
"Cap,"
He chokes on the ash, his eyes brim with hot embers and molten flesh, they spill out and sear his cheeks. He can't breathe around the fire in his lungs, can't swallow past the red-hot coal in his throat.
"We gotta keep moving,"
"I- I," He chokes again and squeezes his eyes shut against the grain of ash. "I can't,"
Suddenly he's being pulled onto his feet.
"Sorry, Cap. We just don't have time for this,"
His legs try their hardest to keep up with the ground. His lungs gasp for air, his eyes sting with ice. His heart is racing, racing, racing.
###
"I thought I'd find you here,"
He doesn't look up, doesn't blink.
She picks up a chair and sits, folds her hands atop the table.
"Do you know that I can't get drunk?"
She hesitates for a moment. "According to Dr. Erskine, your metabolism burns four times faster than the average person. He thought It could be one of the side effects,"
He hums. "Shame,"
He contemplates drinking wolfsbane tea, then contemplates where he'd get his hands on wolfsbane.
She sighs. "Steve-"
"Don't," he snaps, bearing his teeth. For all that he respects and loves her, he doesn't want to hear whatever she has to say.
"It wasn't your fault,"
He bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes copper on his tongue. "Did you read the report?"
"Yes,"
He digs his fingernails into the table. They bite into the wood and the table creaks wearily. "You don't..."
"Don't get it?" She finishes for him. "You aren't the only one who has lost a brother, Steve,"
Brother. The word makes him want to laugh and scream and tear himself apart because she would never understand. It's a sickening deviation of the relationship they shared, the bond they had forged in blood and silver. He wants to cry because they don't understand.
They don't understand that he has to live the rest of his waking moments in hell, that his only relief from the next moment of agony is the promise of the next life where he and his beloved will be reunited. They haven't seen wolves driven to madness by the death of their mates, the carnage they shed to try to escape the overwhelming need to tear themselves apart.
He digs his nails deeper into the wood, gnaws his cheek open and drinks down the metallic liquid.
"Can I tell you something that you might not believe?" She asks.
He wonders what she thinks she's been saying so far. He nods.
"It does get easier. Not better, but easier,"
He looks her in the eye. "Can I tell you something you might not believe?"
She nods.
He hesitates, just for a moment. He leans closer and whispers, "I believe that you believe that,"
She blinks.
He grins, a cruel gash across his face, filled with sharp teeth and malice. It disappears as quickly as it came. "I'm going after Schmidt and I'm not going to stop him and the rest of HYDRA is either dead or captured,"
She nods. "You won't be going in alone,"
###
"I gotta put her in the water," he realizes.
"No, Steve, we can find another way! Stark can-"
"Peggy," he pleads. "If this thing hits land, a lot of innocent people are going to die,"
"... Are you sure it's the only way?"
He swallows. "Yes,"
The radio is silent for a moment. "Alright,"
He takes a deep breath and angles the flight rig down. He is pushed back against the pilot's seat as the water and ice closer and closer.
"Do me a favour, Pegs?"
"What is it?" her voice asks, quiet and venerable and so, so unlike the strong, self-assured woman the voice belonged to.
He opens his mouth. Closes it. The ice gets closer and closer with each passing second. "Tell Bucky's folks that I'm sorry,"
"Steve-"
"Promise me?" He asks, quietly.
"... I promise,"
He closes his eyes in relief. "Thank you,"
The plane shakes as it collides with the ice, smashing holes in the windshield and filling the cockpit with frigid seawater.
The water stings when he inhales and burns his cuts and cradles his bruises. The water in his lungs washes out the ash and brimstone, cuts into his charred flesh and leaches away the burning heat.
He chokes and sputters. Each breath is torture in and of itself. Nothing compared to tortures past. He squeezes his eyes shut, leans back in the pilot's seat, and allows the ocean to overtake him.