Jenn Wahrheit
Shared publicly -#ASoulUnchained: CHAPTER 54
( #JennWahrheitFanfiction, featuring: #AllenHunterMarvelOC and #SteveRogers )
New York City
August 8, 2013
Wearing clean clothes, with my hair freshly combed, I reluctantly climbed into Steve Rogers' car, wondering who it was that Rogers was so insistent on taking me to visit. Not that it really would have mattered who it was—I still wouldn't have wanted to go any more than I already did. But I like to know what to expect, and the fact that I didn't know this time bothered me.
"Okay..." Rogers pulled away from the curb with a sigh. "So how about you start being honest with me, now?"
"I have been," I said. And I had. Just because I hadn't told him everything didn't mean that what I had told him wasn't true.
"Well, you haven't been deliberately dishonest," he conceded. "At least I don't think you have."
"I haven't," I assured him. Keeping back information that isn't his business doesn't count as being "deliberately dishonest", does it? It just means that there's things I'm not ready to talk about yet—and might never be, I thought.
"Good," he said. "And I hope you won't..."
We drove on in silence, and he obviously was hoping I might say more. But I didn't—not because I didn't want to talk to him, because I honestly did. There was a part of me that longed to open up and tell him everything—the nightmares, the flight I'd taken to clear my mind, the horrible realization that it was my fault the A.I.D. had gotten their hands on me, the fear that God would now simply send me straight to hell without giving me any more chances to get it right.
Yes, I really did want to tell him all that... but I didn't know how. I wasn't sure how to communicate what I was feeling, and that kept me silent.
"So are you feeling any better today?" Rogers asked, as we sat at a stoplight. "Got your appetite back yet?"
If I said yes, he might try to make me eat something, but if I said no, then he would know something was still wrong with me. So I just shrugged and gave a noncommittal grunt, staring out the window and trying to pretend I hadn't heard his question.
"Allen?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Good," Rogers said, apparently mistaking my reply to mean that yes, my appetite had returned.
I let him think it.
Now you ARE being deliberately dishonest, I chastised myself, uncomfortable even though I hadn't exactly lied to Rogers; I'd only deliberately allowed him to believe something that was not true. And now, if he tries to get you to eat, you'll have to either pretend you're hungry and choke down the food he gives you, or you'll have to admit that you lied.
After we'd driven a few blocks, I glanced over at him and admitted reluctantly, "I... actually still feel really sick."
"So your appetite hasn't come back."
"Yeah..." I squirmed uncomfortably in my seat. "I wasn't saying that my appetite was back. I just meant 'yes, sir', as in, 'what do you want', not as in, 'yes, I'm feeling better'."
"I see."
"Yeah..." I muttered, eyes on my lap.
"You want to talk about it?"
"About the fact that I'm feeling sick?"
"No. Don't play stupid; you know what I mean. There's something bothering you."
I sighed. Well, at least I can try to tell him SOME of what's wrong, I thought, as I tentatively admitted, "I've kind of been having some bad dreams... so I don't really like to sleep very much. And not sleeping stresses me out, and being stressed out makes me feel sick to my stomach, I guess."
Rogers nodded. "Nightmares, huh? I get you. I've had my share," he said.
I looked at him in surprise. "Grown-ups can have nightmares, too?" I asked, aware the moment I said it that it was a stupid question.
He didn't treat it like a stupid question, though.
"Yeah, grown-ups can have them, too. Although I don't always feel like a grown-up when I wake up right after having one. Sometimes I feel like a scared little kid," he confessed with a smile.
"What kind of nightmares do you have?" I asked.
"Well... I fought in a pretty nasty war. World War II... I think you read about it in one of your history books."
I nodded.
"It was bad," he said. "There was a lot of pain, and suffering, and..." He paused. "There were a lot of people I couldn't save," he said.
"Friends?" I asked.
"Friends, and other people. There were also the people that I had to kill..." Stopping at another red light, he looked over at me. "You know, the super-soldier serum that I was injected with gives me a perfect memory. So I remember the people I had to kill—every last one. Some people think it's easy for a soldier to kill, because he's been trained to fight. But the easier it is at the time, the harder it is to think about later."
The light turned green, and he stepped gently on the grass, easing the car slowly forward. The traffic wasn't bad (not for the middle of New York City anyway), but the going was still pretty slow.
"So... you have nightmares about it?" I asked. "About having to kill people?"
He nodded. "About the enemies I've killed, about the friends I couldn't save..." He paused. "Sometimes when I'm dreaming, things get mixed up and I end up dreaming about killing my own comrades. Bucky and I end up on different sides of the war somehow, and I shoot him before realizing who he is. My bullet goes through his chest with a spray of blood, and he crumples to the ground... and then I realize what just happened, and I rush to help him, but it's too late. He bleeds out in my arms, and the look of betrayal on his face... it's pretty hard to see, even just in a dream. He curses me... and pushes me away... and then his body goes limp. And I have to leave him there, and get up... and keep fighting..."
Rogers started slightly, then glanced over at me. "Sorry, I didn't mean to make this all about me. We weren't talking about my dreams, we were talking about..."
"It's fine," I said. Somehow, hearing the description of his nightmare had helped me. "You remember a lot of details," I said. "Is that a dream you have often?"
"Well, like I said, I remember everything," he said. He heaved a sigh, his large shoulders rising and falling as he flipped on his turn signal and turned off onto a different street, which seemed even more crowded than the first. "Yeah, I have it often," he admitted after a few minutes. "With different variations... Bucky's almost always involved, though, and when he is, he always dies. And it's always my fault."
"Who is Bucky?" I asked.
Rogers smiled ruefully. "Best friend I ever had," he said softly. "He died in the war. Sacrificed himself for my sake..." He shook his head. "It was his choice to give his life for me like that... but that's not how it feels. It feels like after all those years of being friends... I failed him. He was always there for me when I needed him, and then the one time he needed me..."
"I'm sorry," I said, unsure of what else to say. "That must have been... pretty bad."
Rogers glanced at me, as if reminding himself that I was only fourteen. "It was. Maybe war stories aren't really appropriate for you..."
"It's okay," I broke in. I forced a chuckle and shrugged. "I mean, Mabry made me watch a guy take a bullet in the head when I was ten. How much worse can it get?"
"Mabry did what?"
I grinned. "Crazy, huh?"
"You never told me that before." Rogers didn't share my pretense of mirth.
"It's not really the kind of thing I like to talk about," I replied, dropping my attempt at pretending I thought it was funny. "It's... well, I'm sure it's not as bad as going through a war, but I guess I'm kind of a wimp, and to me, it was kind of... I don't know, disturbing, I guess?"
"It would be disturbing to me, too."
I felt tears come to my eyes, and I didn't say anything because I didn't trust my voice to work without betraying my pain.
Rogers switched lanes and stopped at another red light. "Death is death. What you had to see is no less horrible than what I've been through. That's what makes war so awful in the first place: the human suffering. The destruction of lives and families... but it doesn't have to be a large-scale war that does it. One bullet is enough."
I nodded, immensely grateful to realize that Rogers understood. He didn't consider it wimpy or childish for me to still cringe at the thought of what I'd seen. He didn't think it was weak of me to feel sorry for the man that I had seen die, or to wish that there was something I could have done to stop him from being killed.
"Is that what your nightmares are about?" Rogers asked gently. "Seeing that man get killed?"
I froze, suddenly feeling like I couldn't breathe. A slight tremble went through my body, and I felt like I was about to vomit.
"No," I said, trying unsuccessfully to keep my voice steady. "Not... not exactly..."
#Marvel #MarvelOC #CaptainAmerica #TheAID #SHIELD #ScottMabryMarvelOC #TheHulk #Criminals #Spies #Assassin #Adoption #Fight #Friendship #Forgiveness #Kindness #Fear #Anger #Confusion #Punishment #Pain #Sickness #MedicalCare #NewYorkCity #Avengers #AvengersTower #NewYork #God #Christianity #Questions #Child #Playing #Game #ActionFigures #Fanfiction #PixabayFreeImages #JennWahrheitEdits #HashtagOveruseXD
( #JennWahrheitFanfiction, featuring: #AllenHunterMarvelOC and #SteveRogers )
New York City
August 8, 2013
Wearing clean clothes, with my hair freshly combed, I reluctantly climbed into Steve Rogers' car, wondering who it was that Rogers was so insistent on taking me to visit. Not that it really would have mattered who it was—I still wouldn't have wanted to go any more than I already did. But I like to know what to expect, and the fact that I didn't know this time bothered me.
"Okay..." Rogers pulled away from the curb with a sigh. "So how about you start being honest with me, now?"
"I have been," I said. And I had. Just because I hadn't told him everything didn't mean that what I had told him wasn't true.
"Well, you haven't been deliberately dishonest," he conceded. "At least I don't think you have."
"I haven't," I assured him. Keeping back information that isn't his business doesn't count as being "deliberately dishonest", does it? It just means that there's things I'm not ready to talk about yet—and might never be, I thought.
"Good," he said. "And I hope you won't..."
We drove on in silence, and he obviously was hoping I might say more. But I didn't—not because I didn't want to talk to him, because I honestly did. There was a part of me that longed to open up and tell him everything—the nightmares, the flight I'd taken to clear my mind, the horrible realization that it was my fault the A.I.D. had gotten their hands on me, the fear that God would now simply send me straight to hell without giving me any more chances to get it right.
Yes, I really did want to tell him all that... but I didn't know how. I wasn't sure how to communicate what I was feeling, and that kept me silent.
"So are you feeling any better today?" Rogers asked, as we sat at a stoplight. "Got your appetite back yet?"
If I said yes, he might try to make me eat something, but if I said no, then he would know something was still wrong with me. So I just shrugged and gave a noncommittal grunt, staring out the window and trying to pretend I hadn't heard his question.
"Allen?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Good," Rogers said, apparently mistaking my reply to mean that yes, my appetite had returned.
I let him think it.
Now you ARE being deliberately dishonest, I chastised myself, uncomfortable even though I hadn't exactly lied to Rogers; I'd only deliberately allowed him to believe something that was not true. And now, if he tries to get you to eat, you'll have to either pretend you're hungry and choke down the food he gives you, or you'll have to admit that you lied.
After we'd driven a few blocks, I glanced over at him and admitted reluctantly, "I... actually still feel really sick."
"So your appetite hasn't come back."
"Yeah..." I squirmed uncomfortably in my seat. "I wasn't saying that my appetite was back. I just meant 'yes, sir', as in, 'what do you want', not as in, 'yes, I'm feeling better'."
"I see."
"Yeah..." I muttered, eyes on my lap.
"You want to talk about it?"
"About the fact that I'm feeling sick?"
"No. Don't play stupid; you know what I mean. There's something bothering you."
I sighed. Well, at least I can try to tell him SOME of what's wrong, I thought, as I tentatively admitted, "I've kind of been having some bad dreams... so I don't really like to sleep very much. And not sleeping stresses me out, and being stressed out makes me feel sick to my stomach, I guess."
Rogers nodded. "Nightmares, huh? I get you. I've had my share," he said.
I looked at him in surprise. "Grown-ups can have nightmares, too?" I asked, aware the moment I said it that it was a stupid question.
He didn't treat it like a stupid question, though.
"Yeah, grown-ups can have them, too. Although I don't always feel like a grown-up when I wake up right after having one. Sometimes I feel like a scared little kid," he confessed with a smile.
"What kind of nightmares do you have?" I asked.
"Well... I fought in a pretty nasty war. World War II... I think you read about it in one of your history books."
I nodded.
"It was bad," he said. "There was a lot of pain, and suffering, and..." He paused. "There were a lot of people I couldn't save," he said.
"Friends?" I asked.
"Friends, and other people. There were also the people that I had to kill..." Stopping at another red light, he looked over at me. "You know, the super-soldier serum that I was injected with gives me a perfect memory. So I remember the people I had to kill—every last one. Some people think it's easy for a soldier to kill, because he's been trained to fight. But the easier it is at the time, the harder it is to think about later."
The light turned green, and he stepped gently on the grass, easing the car slowly forward. The traffic wasn't bad (not for the middle of New York City anyway), but the going was still pretty slow.
"So... you have nightmares about it?" I asked. "About having to kill people?"
He nodded. "About the enemies I've killed, about the friends I couldn't save..." He paused. "Sometimes when I'm dreaming, things get mixed up and I end up dreaming about killing my own comrades. Bucky and I end up on different sides of the war somehow, and I shoot him before realizing who he is. My bullet goes through his chest with a spray of blood, and he crumples to the ground... and then I realize what just happened, and I rush to help him, but it's too late. He bleeds out in my arms, and the look of betrayal on his face... it's pretty hard to see, even just in a dream. He curses me... and pushes me away... and then his body goes limp. And I have to leave him there, and get up... and keep fighting..."
Rogers started slightly, then glanced over at me. "Sorry, I didn't mean to make this all about me. We weren't talking about my dreams, we were talking about..."
"It's fine," I said. Somehow, hearing the description of his nightmare had helped me. "You remember a lot of details," I said. "Is that a dream you have often?"
"Well, like I said, I remember everything," he said. He heaved a sigh, his large shoulders rising and falling as he flipped on his turn signal and turned off onto a different street, which seemed even more crowded than the first. "Yeah, I have it often," he admitted after a few minutes. "With different variations... Bucky's almost always involved, though, and when he is, he always dies. And it's always my fault."
"Who is Bucky?" I asked.
Rogers smiled ruefully. "Best friend I ever had," he said softly. "He died in the war. Sacrificed himself for my sake..." He shook his head. "It was his choice to give his life for me like that... but that's not how it feels. It feels like after all those years of being friends... I failed him. He was always there for me when I needed him, and then the one time he needed me..."
"I'm sorry," I said, unsure of what else to say. "That must have been... pretty bad."
Rogers glanced at me, as if reminding himself that I was only fourteen. "It was. Maybe war stories aren't really appropriate for you..."
"It's okay," I broke in. I forced a chuckle and shrugged. "I mean, Mabry made me watch a guy take a bullet in the head when I was ten. How much worse can it get?"
"Mabry did what?"
I grinned. "Crazy, huh?"
"You never told me that before." Rogers didn't share my pretense of mirth.
"It's not really the kind of thing I like to talk about," I replied, dropping my attempt at pretending I thought it was funny. "It's... well, I'm sure it's not as bad as going through a war, but I guess I'm kind of a wimp, and to me, it was kind of... I don't know, disturbing, I guess?"
"It would be disturbing to me, too."
I felt tears come to my eyes, and I didn't say anything because I didn't trust my voice to work without betraying my pain.
Rogers switched lanes and stopped at another red light. "Death is death. What you had to see is no less horrible than what I've been through. That's what makes war so awful in the first place: the human suffering. The destruction of lives and families... but it doesn't have to be a large-scale war that does it. One bullet is enough."
I nodded, immensely grateful to realize that Rogers understood. He didn't consider it wimpy or childish for me to still cringe at the thought of what I'd seen. He didn't think it was weak of me to feel sorry for the man that I had seen die, or to wish that there was something I could have done to stop him from being killed.
"Is that what your nightmares are about?" Rogers asked gently. "Seeing that man get killed?"
I froze, suddenly feeling like I couldn't breathe. A slight tremble went through my body, and I felt like I was about to vomit.
"No," I said, trying unsuccessfully to keep my voice steady. "Not... not exactly..."
#Marvel #MarvelOC #CaptainAmerica #TheAID #SHIELD #ScottMabryMarvelOC #TheHulk #Criminals #Spies #Assassin #Adoption #Fight #Friendship #Forgiveness #Kindness #Fear #Anger #Confusion #Punishment #Pain #Sickness #MedicalCare #NewYorkCity #Avengers #AvengersTower #NewYork #God #Christianity #Questions #Child #Playing #Game #ActionFigures #Fanfiction #PixabayFreeImages #JennWahrheitEdits #HashtagOveruseXD
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