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Pray
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'How old are you now?'

For a moment, he forgets. He's lived too long. His mind can no longer keep up with his body. Steven Rogers is tired. He is exhausted and no amount of sleep can cure him.

They offered him drugs.

Antidepressants.

It's just life. It's age. It's natural, and Steve has been spoilt with many years. Now, waking up is a challenge. Opening his eyes and embracing the morning is near close to impossible. He was naïve. To begin with, he was naïve. Because, surely, a meddled life can't last. Frozen for decades, imprisoned in ice; his body didn't mature, his heart didn't give out.

But his mind aged alone.

Of course it was slow. This want for death, for a final release, was a gradual process.

However it happened. It happened. As each day passed, he found less point to breathe, less of a desire to leave the house. He can walk, his legs work; he's still fit. He still looks no younger than thirty. And, yet, he's disgusted at the face in the mirror. This youthful, angelic face. One he would have recognised so long ago.

He doesn't recognise it anymore. It's just a face.

A ghost of what once was.

Who knew SHIELD employes therapists for its agents? What sort of agent has so little pride they are willing to discuss their mental health with a complete stranger? Steve can imagine the reactions of the other Avengers. Tony Stark's grin. He can't help but wonder if Tony finds his "disability" entertaining? As for Thor and Bruce, Steve can't quite imagine.

Maybe they're sympathetic?

Maybe.

Steve is the first to go.

The first to leave the Avengers. He's the first disappointment.

So, maybe they see him as that: a disappointment. An old man. A tired, old man who is incapable of adjusting to this strange "modern" era. It's not about the technology. Touch screens, iPhones, laptops, whacky cars –– they don't bother Steve. Not really. It's something far more subtle. More internal about this society which he cannot relate to.

'Captain?'

Good Christ. He's still being referred to by his codename.

'Old enough.' Steve tries to smile. His therapist tries to smile as well. It's not funny, though. Not anymore. 'I'm one hundred and fifteen in two months.'

Rain patters against the window.

Taps.

taptaptaptap

'And you've made your age a problem? Why's that?'

Clearly this therapist is new.

Tell us, Steve: why do you feel old? Try and find reason in your irrational thoughts. Contradict the issue leaking in your head. Why do you feel alone in this world? Why can you not relate to anybody? Why do you still kind of hope the door to your apartment will open, and Peggy will step through? A coffee in hand, her scarlet lipstick matching that sweet, outrageous hat she wore to work.

Just for fun.

Just to mock what is expected of her.

Why are the mornings suddenly cold?

The therapist waits for an answer, even though there is none. Steve leans back in his seat. It's as if tiny pieces of his humanity are slipping away. Of his character, of who he is. Who he was. Stolen with each loss. Peggy passed far too soon. Steve never got round to saying good bye. Bucky was next. His death... Steve can't accept it still. His death was bizarre. He was alive one minute, the next he wasn't. Suddenly, the love of his life sleeps, his body decaying deep underground.

Doctors say it was a heart condition.

Steve knows the truth. The constant brainwashing, the neglect of his sore head –– no creature can withstand the strain.

'I'm trying to help you, Captain.'

'I think–– if we tried again tomorrow?'

The therapist sighs. He feels as if he's let Steve down.

He's young. Twenty something. Too young to be working with monsters.

'Try and rest. I'll make sure you're given your favourite dinner tonight.'

Steve has to smile. Has to shake his hand, and thank him.

The door shuts.

He's alone. Counting every forced breath.

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The window is open.

Which is odd. Because Steve is certain he closed it before going to bed. He lies on his side, his senses suddenly alert. A silent wind caresses through his hair. A shiver shoots up his spine. It's the first time in years he's felt vulnerable.

It's a good sensation.

One he's thirsty for.

(There is somebody else in the room.)

Steve has no weapons on him. Not that he requires any. Physical strength is his sword.

Yet the intruder hasn't moved. Steve rolls onto his back, turns to the window. A dark silhouette sits on the window ledge. His eyes follow the figure's outline: the curve at its hip, how one leg dangles off the edge, and as his eyes adjust to the darkness, he recognises the length of its hair. Her hair. Her. This catches him by surprise. Her hair is longer than he remembers. Past her shoulders.

'I love your iddy biddy pyjamas.'

Steve isn't too pleased Natasha Romanoff has caught him in his blue, aeroplane nightwear. But they were a gift from Sam. And he likes them.

It's one of very few things he likes.

'Usually people knock the door.'

'Yeah.' Natasha shrugs. 'Those people are boring.'

He doesn't know if he's happy to see her. She hasn't been in communication with him ever since he left the Avengers. In fact, as far as he's concerned, she's avoided him at all costs. As soon as gossip spread about Steve's "illness", Natasha vanished.

For the first few years, he understood. Natasha is a complex woman. She probably doesn't know what to do. A close friend is struggling, struggling with his own mind. He's dying. He's finally dying, and it is completely out of her hands.

The only rational course of action is to flee.

After five years, though, Steve begins to think her escape as a betrayal.

But Steve is kind. Steve is wonderful, and he can't be angry with her. Because he gets it. He really gets it. 'Look, if you're going to stay, could you at least close the window? You're letting all the heat out.'

'I thought some fresh air would do you good.'

He doesn't like what she's implying.

There's a pause, and then Natasha elegantly slips off the window sill, onto the floor. Before obnoxiously slamming the window shut.

Steve isn't amused.

'What do you want?'

Natasha is light on her feet. She drags over a chair, sits by him.

'Rumour has it you've been blue.'

'Right.' Steve chuckles.

Natasha cocks her head to the side. 'And how does that make you feel, Rogers?' She's mocking him. She's impersonating his therapist and she is making fun of his condition. Neither of them laugh. Neither of them smile. Neither of them find this very funny.

She doesn't understand.

Doesn't want to understand.

Giving in, as far as she's concerned, is the coward's way out.

'You're wasting your time,' Steve says softly.

Natasha doesn't move.

'Fine.' He's not angry. He's tired. 'It makes me feel weak.'

How he wishes he could see her face. Her expression. If she has one. It's too dark. But he can feel her eyes on him. Her judgement. She's a master at controlling her thoughts, her emotions; she's disturbing at how well she can maintain such fierce stoicism.

Ironically, when he can't see her, he is able to observe every tiny emotion slipping through.

Anger is the first.

'Lazing around will do that to you.'

'You think it's laziness?'

'I think it's many things.'

'Illuminate me.'

She doesn't.

Steve sighs. Now he does want her to go. This is humiliating. Natasha is one of few people he trusts and, right now, she seems to hate his guts. The words tumble from his lips before he has time to register them: 'I hate you seeing me this way.'

They fall into silence.

After ten minutes, he wants to ask why she's still here. If she is just being cruel.
After fifteen minutes, he realises she's here because she wants to be.
After sixteen minutes, he knows she's here because she wants to be with him.

She needs him.

'What happened?'

Natasha is able to act. She tries to play another woman.

One who doesn't feel.

'They found his body.'

'Whose?'

They watch each other in darkness.

Steve's heart misses a beat.

His palms begin to sweat.

They found his body.

'When...? How...?'

Natasha stands abruptly. Grabs the chair and drags it away. She leans it against the wall, is still for a moment longer.

'Suicide. Apparently.'

Even Steve doesn't believe that.

'I don't want to talk about it.'

The act collapses. Natasha needs to catch her breath. She exhales deeply. It's a pathetic attempt to erase the image of Clint's corpse in her head. She doesn't recognise him as a corpse; she probably never will. Oh, she's so sick of this. Sick of him, sick of his constant vanishing, sick of his love, sick of him dying. Steve winces, twiddles his thumbs.

'I'm sorry.'

Natasha steps forward. Doesn't watch him. Her focus is on the window. 'I'm not.'

She hasn't left.

There's a reason why.

'Do you want to stay?'

Finally, she manages to pry her eyes away from the window; look at him.

And his heart shatters.

The very little life Natasha expressed has been ripped from her. Her eyes are dead, but blinded by tears, desperate to break free. She's more of a ghost than he is. They are tortured warriors with nothing left to show but dented armour and wrecked sanity.

It's all gone.

Just everything–– gone.

Rotting entities waiting to be dragged back down to Hell.

'No.'

'I think you should stay.'

'I think––' Her voice breaks. Her defences are down. And she can't recover. Natasha has been compromised. Suddenly, she's trembling and she's small and fragile and human. Her wrist is pressed against her mouth, back arched a little forwards, and his death is a split through her body.

Her mind screams out for him.

Begging.

Don't be gone.

Steve finds his feet. Balances himself.

Comes up behind her. Hesitates. She doesn't stir. Then, he does the only thing he can: he holds her.

His arms wrap around her middle, and he leans his head into the back of her shoulder. They mourn in a terrifying silence. And it's like holding a statue. Natasha is frozen in his embrace, and he squeezes a little harder, just to tell her, to tell himself, that he is there. Just to remind her he still exists; he still exists and he hasn't left her yet.

Her body is cold.

His arms are scalding against her leather outfit.

Burning.

He remembers what it's like to live. To feel. To love.

'––Get off me, please.'

She's composed.

Steve obeys immediately, but doesn't move away. Natasha peers at him over her shoulder, one eyebrow raised. He expects a smart comment, a joke, but her gaze drops to the floor.

'That didn't happen,' she murmurs, more to herself than he. 'But... thanks.'

'For what?' It feels good to smile. To really smile.

'Don't be funny. Old man.'

She brushes him off. Them off. She's okay. She's all right. She walks to the window, shoulders back, and she's how he knows her. Natasha opens the window, jumps onto the edge, glances at him. Steve doesn't move. He waits for her to leave.

A thought passes. She squints her eyes at him.

'You don't look half bad in blue.'

He raises his brows. 'Thank you.'

And she disappears in a flash. Through the window, and drops.

Leaving a silent promise to return to him tomorrow.

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author's note: This is the first chapter of what I think will be a short story. If you want to contact me, or receive updates on this and other fics I'm writing, then please follow me on Tumblr (writinginpaint). You are welcome to send in writing prompts as well.

I don't have a date for when my story is set, but it's a while after The Winter Soldier. Most of this will delve into the rather confusing relationship Steve and Natasha have (at least, I think it's confusing. There's definitely an interesting form of love between them. I refuse to see it as sibling love, but that's just me. Everyone is welcome to different interpretation). I also want to focus on Steve's age and how that effects him (mostly headcanon of course), as well as Natasha's not-so mentally stable lifestyle and history.

Please leave a review! Your feedback is extremely important. If all goes well, I should update soon. Keep in mind I am a full-time student, so my updates will be spontaneous. Thanks for reading. Until next time!

Rating will change to M later on for reasons.