—— steve breaks, you try and fix him. fyi, this fic is pretty dark, pretty emotional, pretty heavy tbh… u wanna get the full effect? listen to “two evils” by bastille while reading to get punched in the fucking heart!
Atlas drops the world.
And Steve Roger’s knees buckle, fingers slipping, and he cracks like weathered marble. So suddenly, he isn’t so super and he’s no hero and he can’t hold on to that tow-rope and that car plunges off the highway overpass and he can hear that mother screaming on the way down. Her kids are screaming, too, but they’re watching the man who held up the world drop theirs.
He knows you’re awake when he pushes through the doors of your apartment.
You have a bad habit of laying awake, listening to the creaks of the old Brooklyn apartment complex. You wait for him; it’s a habit you can’t break because some nights you’re afraid he will and you won’t be awake, won’t be there to piece him back together.
He drops his bag at the door – his uniform is inside, still caked with debris and blood. Blue eyes look tired and cold, and you know that it’s one of those nights.
You sit up, illuminated by the glow of your alarm clock, and Steve’s steps are heavy. He collapses onto the bed, hands on his knees and head in his hands. The bed frame creaks with a mournful wail.
“… Steve?”
He doesn’t speak – he can’t, really, because he doesn’t want to cut you on his broken edges.
This is scares you into moving.
The sheets run like a river around you and you slip to the ground before him; the rug burns your knees and your fingers shake a bit as they wind into his jeans – you’ve been here before, hazy with lust and enamored with the strength of the man before you.
But, now, lust is lost and you struggle to hold up your world.
“Steve,” you say, coaxing and soft, “Steve, it’s okay.”
He pulls his face from his hands and you see the angry ribbons of flesh along his palms when he does. His eyes are rimmed with a mournful regret; he doesn’t want you to see him like this. He doesn’t have to say it. The shame in his posture does.
You rise on your knees, nightgown slipping off your shoulder as you sway into his arms. Steve winces when you speak – it’s so gentle, so loving. He doesn’t deserve it.
“O, Captain, my Captain,” you whisper, lips pressed to the cut of his cheekbones, “What happened?”
Your fingers dip into the golden tufts along his scalp, but when he shakes his head and hiccups with a suffering sob, you rescind the touch and rock back to the floor like a falling tide.
It’s fear that warrants the reaction – you’ve never seen him so much as crack. Steve Rogers is ever-unwavering, ever-present, ever-fixed. He is so very much Atlas, shouldering the weight of the world.
And Atlas dropped the world.
And so you move, standing and turning the lights on and pulling yourself together because he needs you to be ever-unwavering, ever-present, ever-fixed.
Steve is crying now – angry, frustrated, pissed sobs that tear themselves out of his throat and you scramble to sweep him into a hard hold. You press your fingers into his hair the way he does when you’re having a panic attack.
It coaxes a breathe out of his lungs, and after what feels like forever, he stops.
He goes silent.
And your fingers shake with panic.
“Steve,” you say his name again like a prayer, “Talk to me.”
He searches for the words, only finding them when you’ve kissed his cheek the second time.
“I made a mistake today,” he utters, “It cost a mother her life.”
Sometimes you forget that he’s not invincible. Steve is not made of marble and he’s not Atlas. He’s human, and under the sinews of super-soldier muscles is a man who yearns for peace and a good night’s rest. He’s seen war and crawled from the fires of it changed.
You don’t press further, but instead urge him up and strip him of his clothes that smell too much like smoke and gasoline and his motorcycle. He complies wordlessly, shredding those bits of the outside world in favor of your touch and slips into bed beside you with cold hands.
You reach over him, pulling the chain on your bed lamp and smothering the studio apartment in darkness again. Steve watches you shift in the moonlight; you look worried and he feels guilty. Your eyes are wide, trained on him.
You’re quiet for a while – until his breathing evens out and his hands begin to move in slow circles on the small of your back.
You tuck yourself close to his ribs.
“You know I love you very much, right?”
Steve makes a sound; it’s soft and pressed into your hair. It’s enough – he doesn’t feel better but he knows he won’t for days.
“And you’re a good man,” you whisper, “But, you’re a man. You make mistakes, and you care. And that’s why I love you.”
He needs to hear it some days, and when Atlas drops the world, you’re there to lessen the blow. You bear the weight for a while, shoulder his burden, bend under the breakage.
Toad's Cave 