50 Lonely
Steve began to catalog his injuries. His right cheek stung and he could feel a square of gauze taped there. Under his sheets, he found his upper chest heavily bandaged and more white squares taped to the inside of his arm. It hurt to lay down and put pressure on his back, and with some turning and uncomfortable shifting, he could see in a mirror across the hospital room, big black bruises painted across his back. He ran his hand over what he could reach across his shoulder blade and he felt lines of stitching. There was more black everywhere, up his arms and down his legs and the pain was overwhelming. Finally, exhausted, Steve lowered himself again carefully on the bed and tried not to hurt himself because everything was sore.
His first thought was that everything would be easier if he had in fact died, but after thinking this, he realized the sentiment inside the words was hollow for the very first time and that maybe he was reciting this to himself out of morbid habit and he didn't quite know what to think.
Sharon came in later, and when she saw him, she began to weep.
"Sharon, it's okay," Steve tried to comfort her, and when he did, she cried harder and collapsed into the chair Bucky had left.
"I almost didn't believe him, you know," she finally managed to say through her tears and Steve frowned, looking at her.
"What are you talking about?" He asked and she motioned to him.
"He said he was scared of you trying to take your own life," she said and Steve swallowed. "Natasha says you ran into a bomb blast."
"I, uh," Steve said. "Thought I could stop it in time."
"That's not what Natasha says!" Sharon cried. "She said it was obviously already too late and you were just looking for a good excuse to die." Steve didn't know what to say and found himself speechless, as he often did, because what she was saying was true.
"It was a Bad Day," he replied quietly.
"You're right!" Sharon said. "It was a horrible day, it was a really bad day!"
"You don't understand," Steve replied and Sharon pursed her lips and blinked back tears.
"No," she said, her voice cracking. "I don't." There was a pause in the conversation as Sharon tried to regain her composure, pulling tissues out of her purse to wipe her eyes. Then, she seemed to remember something and rustled around in her bag more until she'd brought out folded clothes for Steve, and some books from his shelf. "Here," she said, putting them on his nightstand and Steve reached out with his non-bandaged arm to look through them.
"These are my things," he commented, confused, and Sharon shrugged sadly.
"I wanted to help," she said. "Thought you'd need these." Then, "Bucky gave me permission, to take them for you, I mean. I thought you'd want me to ask him, rather than anyone else. And the landlord agreed to let me in." Steve left the things there and smiled weakly for her.
"Thank you," he said. "I appreciate that."
"I'm sorry," Sharon said, like it had burst out of her. "I'm sorry, about what I said, about earlier."
"What do you mean?" Steve asked.
"Aunt Peggy's funeral," Sharon said. "I was cruel to you, when you tried to be there for me."
"It's fine," Steve said. "I understand."
"It's not fine," Sharon cried, suddenly loud. "Because I'm lonely, too! I get it, Steve, I know what it's like to be alone!"
They looked at each other and Sharon breathed in shakily in the quiet.
Steve reached out to the table beside them and tapped out i-k-n-o-w.