As the sky turned into a deep orange and then into a spectacular display of colors, Steve found himself growing afraid.
It was funny, really; he was Captain America. He shouldn't be afraid. He had been nervous before, but to be afraid of falling asleep?
He stared out the glass door that led to his balcony, his untouched dinner growing cold. Not one muscle moved as he studied the way the different shades of the sky seemed to intermix with each other and suddenly wished he were a painter as well as a drawer. It couldn't hurt to try one day, he concluded to himself. Standing up, he picked the tray up and threw everything away, dumping the plate in a sink.
It was only seven thirty. Steve sighed to himself. He couldn't go to sleep this early.
He leaned over his left arm, which was placed on the counter. There was so much he could do, but nothing that seemed particular. Maybe I'm assimilating to today's culture, he told himself, smiling bitterly.
It came the time for him to sleep. He made vain attempts at comforting his self, shakily taking his shirt off and sliding under the covers. Trying his best to forget all his worries, he closed his eyes and took deep breaths, focusing on other things.
Time slipped by. It was three hours later when he opened his eyes again, breathing heavily, and his body shaking. He sat up, his throat tight. He threw his arm out to the side, clumsily hitting the lamp on his side table before finally turning it on. He sat there, frozen, sheer panic displayed in everyway. His breathing slowed and the shaking stopped. As he thought everything was alright, he suddenly let out a sob.
He hated crying. Especially over something he wasn't even sure of. Something that most likely wasn't worth crying over.
Getting out of his bed, he stumbled out of his room, his legs feeling wobbly. He went across the hall and into the bathroom, where he flipped the light switch, the light almost blinding him. The mirror reflected a face with messy blonde hair and red eyes. He looked away, not liking what he saw. Since when was he so weak? Turning on the faucet, he splashed some water onto his face, stray droplets hitting the bathroom floor. Hands and face dripping, he wiped them on a towel almost ready to fall off the rack.
He went out to the living room where he stood in front of the glass door. New York was so vast and big, unlike his tiny apartment. Not that he minded how small his living area was; no, he didn't mind how big it was, as long as he could properly live in it.
The lights from the city shone brightly. His eyes were slowly adjusting as he stared at the sight. Inside, the fear was slipping away and was being replaced by a sense of loneliness and claustrophobia. He felt so trapped yet so secluded living in the future. Or the present, really. Nothing was the same. Technology, buildings, entertainment—even the girls.
Suddenly a new sadness had dawned on him; instead of the sadness you get when you're terrified that something wouldn't end, it was the sadness that he couldn't change anything. The upset from the nightmare was overwhelmed by this new feeling.
He knew that SHIELD was there to help him; maybe he could even try going out and making some new friends, possibly a more romantic relationship. Hope flittered in him for a second before vanishing again. It wouldn't change that fact that he could never see his friends again or the old New York. And Peggy.
His throat tightened again. Peggy. Eyes burning, he turned away from the glass door and looked down at his feet. He had thought that maybe he found a girl that actually like him—and not for being Captain America, either. He thought that maybe Peggy liked him as the little guy, that she didn't look down on him like all the other girls. But all of that had vanished. Just within a few seconds that turned out to be decades.
In his empty apartment, he felt alone.