I do not own Captain America: Civil War.

But I can't stop writing for it.

What He Said and What He Meant

"Do you know me?"

That voice. That voice alone. That voice alone was enough.

". . . stupid with you."

"Punk."

"Jerk."

Ghost images. Ghost voices.

Close. But infuriatingly just out of reach.

And that face. That familiar face.

"Yeah. You're Steve."

I dreamed of you.

I remember your face.

Below me.

Bloody.

Stubborn.

Little.

Above me.

Stronger.

Worried.

Bigger.

Beside me.

Determined.

Reassuring.

Invincible.

Above me.

Contorted.

Screaming out as I fell away from you into empty whiteness.

Below me.

Beaten.

Bruised.

Bloody.

Because of me.

But I can't say all that. I'm not ready to say all that.

Not yet.

Not just yet.

Because you're standing there two years after I pulled you from the river.

And you shouldn't be here.

You've tracked me down, found my hideout. Chased me across continents.

Something's going on. I can hear it through your earpiece.

Somebody that's not you or me.

Something's about to go down.

And it can't be good.

It never is.

Not with that look on your face.

So I've got to keep it simple. I've got to protect myself.

Because I'm not ready for this and I don't know how it's going to go.

And I don't know how I feel right now.

Except I'm pretty sure something bad is about to happen.

And I don't know yet which side . . .

". . . 'til the end of the line."

. . . you're on.

So I'll keep it simple.

I'll keep myself disconnected, safe.

And I'll give you the easy version.

"I read about you . . . in a museum."

Hello! Couldn't sleep til I posted this.

So now I can.

Thanks for reading!

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