Who: Steve Rogers. What: Remembering. Where: Bedroom. When: Late evening. 15.08. Status: Narrative, complete.
Mr. Sandman. Lying in bed, with his mattress certainly softer than what he's used to, and a pillow equally as soft, which is so soft that his head sinks down in it without pardon, but even with all those strange comforts in this world, sleep doesn't come. No mystical sandman is coming to sprinkle sand into his eyes, to put him sleep with sweet and innocent dreams he doesn't quite deserve. No wonder, he thinks. He was probably on his list, earmarked as another successful hit. No more Mr. sandman, kids of the world. Blame Steve Rogers for a distinct lack of sweet dreams.
Thing is, Steve isn't sure if a Mr. Sandman ever passed the revue of names and faces he never quite bothered to remember or retain. It's just better that way, but it would explain why he wakes up with a scream trapped in his throat, nails digging into the palm of his hands, and soaked in a musk of fear that he hates, while he fights off the remnants of nightmares he'd rather not remember, filled with faces he does know, but still aren't those of the only two other people in this world that were happy to see him here. Three people in total. What a sad life he must've had before Hydra molded him into something he doesn't know to return from.
Shame and regret however, aren't part of his repertoire just yet. Childlike glee and anticipation are. He'd give good money to see the Natashas fight each other, or see his Natasha fight James Rogers just to see who will win. Anger. The other Steve Rogers, Captain America, good old American boy scout, both the concept and the man, is just as foreign to him as he must be to him or everyone else who knows "Cap", but anger is a feeling Steve has learned to embrace. Cap is perfect, in other words, an asshole. Anger is easier, keeps him fueled and fired up. Which made him dangerous for HYDRA's scientists, if just until they fell into a routine Steve came to expect and embrace. Boredom. Bodily functions. Eating. Sleep. Life, freedom in particular, is boring, nothing but a string of mundane activities after the other. Twenty four hours in each day, and he only knows what to do with exactly seven of them. Four hours of sleep, a liberal hour for eating and other bodily functions, and two hours for- cage fighting.
Natasha would call it a hobby, but for Steve, it's just another way to pass the time. Anyhow, falling asleep with bruised flesh, muscles and fractured bones helps, at least for four miserable hours, and cage fighting fits that demand perfectly. Even if he suddenly has more money than he knows what to do with. But there's also confusion, which is nothing new. If anything, he's more confused now than he can ever remember being. And then, without fail, his anger will kick in. Childlike glee after that. Anticipation. Boredom. Ad fucking infinitum. Boring. Predictable.
But in lieu of sleep, he's settled for staring at the ceiling, which is just a blank canvas, dimly illuminated by the streetlamp outside of his window. He hasn't bothered with curtains. Hasn't bothered with a lot of things. But he doesn't feel like shaving. He eats until he thinks he's stuffed, but there's no more missions, no more uncertainty as to when he'll eat next. Regular feedings are a thing now.
And then, just as his eyes start to feel like sandpaper and are threatening to fall shut, he remembers something. "It was a dummy grenade. All clear. Back in formation." And his eyes open again.