( Steve's the second person in so many days to tell him his answers aren't in that shield, and— damn it, he knows. At least, part of him knows. His higher brain knows. He tells himself he knows, but admittedly there's a growing and gnawing disappointment still that Sam having it wasn't enough.
The words are gone from his head, yes. He found some peace in Wakanda, yes. But as it turns out, just because he can't be flipped like a switch and accidentally murder the people around him any more doesn't mean his psychological issues are solved. It doesn't make him feel any better for what he did. It doesn't fix decades of programming, being rewritten, being displaced, losing everybody — losing Steve. He might not be a murderer anymore, but he still feels lost.
He still needs-- Something.
Yelling didn't help, either. This explosion, snarling at Steve, letting off some steam by losing control like this didn't help. He just feels a piercing guilt rapidly replacing the explosive heat, a bitter curl of self-loathing and frustration, a gaping wound.
This is exactly what he didn't want to do.
He's still angry over losing his best friend. He's angry at himself for not being happy for Steve like he should be, because in his mind a good friend wouldn't feel a second of resentment that the person they love managed to find their peace. It feels unfair that he's not allowed to just be pissed. It feels unfair that he's doing everything he can to fix what he did wrong and he doesn't feel any better. He feels guilty for being an asshole to Sam. He feels frustrated that Sam's answer for him — be of service — isn't even something he can do, which means he can't do anything, which means he's just stuck feeling this guilt with no path to resolution. He feels lonely and untethered, caught some place in between letting Steve go and finding that family Sam says he's going to — my nephews adore you — must be nice, to feel that. Wishes he had it now. He hates himself, and this, and you, and god damn everything.
He turns his back to Steve so he can dig his thumb and forefinger into his eyelids, gone wet and red, and he hates that too.
Steve called him a good friend the other day and he said I know, but he doesn't feel like it now. The plates in his left arm twitch and realign, but it hangs heavy at his side as he slowly massages his eyes. )
I wanna be happy for you.
( He says finally, hoarse, low. )
I do. I am. But you're the only—
( He stops. Chews his cheek. Reels himself in, edits and re-edits and re-edits his words. )
You were the only goddamn person alive that saw any good left in me. You took everything with you when you went back, except for that stupid shield. You're not allowed to be disappointed in me for tryin' to look out for it.
( Protectiveness is one of the few remaining definitions he has for himself that has lasted from the very beginning, he doesn't have a better outlet for it now.
Sam's slowly becoming the new target for it, but he's not there yet. )
no subject
The words are gone from his head, yes.
He found some peace in Wakanda, yes.
But as it turns out, just because he can't be flipped like a switch and accidentally murder the people around him any more doesn't mean his psychological issues are solved. It doesn't make him feel any better for what he did. It doesn't fix decades of programming, being rewritten, being displaced, losing everybody — losing Steve. He might not be a murderer anymore, but he still feels lost.
He still needs--
Something.
Yelling didn't help, either. This explosion, snarling at Steve, letting off some steam by losing control like this didn't help. He just feels a piercing guilt rapidly replacing the explosive heat, a bitter curl of self-loathing and frustration, a gaping wound.
This is exactly what he didn't want to do.
He's still angry over losing his best friend.
He's angry at himself for not being happy for Steve like he should be, because in his mind a good friend wouldn't feel a second of resentment that the person they love managed to find their peace.
It feels unfair that he's not allowed to just be pissed.
It feels unfair that he's doing everything he can to fix what he did wrong and he doesn't feel any better.
He feels guilty for being an asshole to Sam.
He feels frustrated that Sam's answer for him — be of service — isn't even something he can do, which means he can't do anything, which means he's just stuck feeling this guilt with no path to resolution.
He feels lonely and untethered, caught some place in between letting Steve go and finding that family Sam says he's going to — my nephews adore you — must be nice, to feel that. Wishes he had it now.
He hates himself, and this, and you, and god damn everything.
He turns his back to Steve so he can dig his thumb and forefinger into his eyelids, gone wet and red, and he hates that too.
Steve called him a good friend the other day and he said I know, but he doesn't feel like it now. The plates in his left arm twitch and realign, but it hangs heavy at his side as he slowly massages his eyes. )
I wanna be happy for you.
( He says finally, hoarse, low. )
I do. I am. But you're the only—
( He stops. Chews his cheek. Reels himself in, edits and re-edits and re-edits his words. )
You were the only goddamn person alive that saw any good left in me. You took everything with you when you went back, except for that stupid shield. You're not allowed to be disappointed in me for tryin' to look out for it.
( Protectiveness is one of the few remaining definitions he has for himself that has lasted from the very beginning, he doesn't have a better outlet for it now.
Sam's slowly becoming the new target for it, but he's not there yet. )