Distressed // Steve Rogers

25 - Illuminated

London

Surrounded by faces she did not know and names that were not offered to her, Talia found herself clinging to the remaining threads of strength she had in her. She clung to them so that she would not break. She clung to them for Steve. 

In the week that had passed he had been a shell of his former self; distant, damaged. His eyes had lost their lustre and his skin was sallow and gaunt. He hardly slept, he hardly ate, he simply existed and Talia's heart splintered with every moment he spent burying himself in his grief. He buried his pain too, hiding it from her, and she didn't know how to make him stop. Every night she had felt him slip out of the bed in the dead of night, she had watched him slink from the room in the darkness. She had heard his quiet, broken sobs. The first three nights she had gone to him. She had held him, brushed her fingers through the blond locks that he had pulled at in his pain, whispered words to soothe him, and those three nights he had pulled away from her. He had told her he was fine, he didn't want to talk about it, he wanted to be alone. So now, when he broke each night she cried with him; separate but together.

She  smiled softly as Sam weaved his way through the crowd, buttoning the jacket of his black suit and nodding politely to the few faces he did know. He stopped beside her, cool and calm, and placed a firm hand on the small of her back. He would be her guide, her companion in this. 

"How's he holding up?" He jutted his chin towards where Steve stood quietly in the back of the crowded room, surrounded by the men he would take this walk with. 

Her chest caved slightly.

"He won't talk to me about it, but he's in pain." Her voice trembled with unshed agony. "He talks to Buck and Buck tells me things, so I do my best to show him I'm here... but..."

"But he shuts you out?" Sam smiled sympathetically as another mourner made their way to Steve's side, pushing a much older man in a chair who took Steve's hand in their own. Talia recognised the uniform, the medals, even the face, from the museum she had asked Bucky to take her to when she was still trying to remember who she was. He was one of the 107th.

"Yeah." She brushed an escaping tear away and bit down on her lower lip as she looked away just as Steve's eyes roamed to her.

Sam nodded slightly, letting Steve know she was okay, before turning back to her and pulling her into his side.

"He just doesn't want to upset you Kid. He doesn't know how to talk about her and not hurt you." He paused watching her carefully before shrugging. "He loved her, you know?"

Talia released a slow breath, closing her eyes and drowning out the sounds of the crowd around her. The hushed whispers, the well meaning wishes of peace and love and strength, the click of heeled footsteps, it was just all so overwhelming.

"I know," she breathed. "And I want to know about her. I want him to share that with me; to want to share that with me."

She felt Sam's lips press into her hair as he squeezed her slightly and she opened her eyes once more, glancing to where Steve had just stood. Now there was just emptiness and the quietened whispers grew smaller still as people began to file into pews and stare ahead. 

"We should sit at the end of the pew." She sighed as Sam's hand slipped into her own. "He's going to need to know we're here."

Sam simply nodded as he pulled her to a seat. It was beginning.

*

Steve took a steadying breath as he stared at the wreath of agapanthus, chrysanthemums and dahlias. He ran his fingers over the thornless white roses and the whisper of gypsophila and his hand shook. The elm wood was simple and elegant, just as she had been. The Union Flag lay flat and lifeless and he felt the pinch in his chest. Stay strong, he told himself. You will not break.