Rogers (Steve Rogers AU) 18+

Prologue

Steve

Three Years Earlier

The flashes of the cameras are overwhelming, noise level above average. My name is on everyone's lips. They all want a piece of me, and I can't even tell just who or where to turn to as they all yell - afraid they won't get that winning shot they came for.

This has been my life for the last ten years, the novelty of making it big as a Hollywood actor slowly wearing down with every film I made. It was a passion once upon a time, now it's more a burden. The toxicity of the so called fandom, the rumours, the lack of privacy - it's been incredibly tough to maintain my persona.

I smile, but lately it's been harder to. Thankfully I'm a pretty good actor so no one can tell that on the inside I'm over all this. My mind, my body? Everything about me has gone to shit. I didn't even wanna be here tonight but knew I had to suck it up for the sake of a few pictures. The last thing I want is drawing more attention to myself through the gossip of me not attending my own premiere. Steve Rogers would never do that, he's such a nice guy, not a bad bone in his body at all...

Fuck them. Fuck everyone.

They compare me to Clint Eastwood, say I've resurrected and created a new found love for cowboy films - and the truth is I loved doing them, but my heart just isn't in it. This isn't what I want or need. Not anymore.

I give my most award winning performance yet. Smile for the cameras, charm my way through the interviews, sign things for the fans who've come out to support me and the rest of the cast. They're already predicting 'Sandbrooks' to be a box office smash.

I couldn't give a fuck if it bombed.

Once upon a time I would have cared about the box office ratings. Back when I was younger and clawing my way up the ladder to become who I am now. Ratings mattered, my career obviously depended on it. But I've learnt that there's more to life than what that Rotten Tomatoes site or any critic scores your hard work with.

"So Steve, what's next for Rip Rawley?" A woman shoves a microphone into my face for me to answer about my character's fate.
To be honest I wanna tell her something cruel, like he's dead. Never to return. The whole franchise is dead in the water - but I don't tell anyone that. Soon the producers and people will find that out though.

I fake smile and shrug. "That's the beauty with Rip, you never know what he's gonna do next", then giving the camera that's filming us a small smile paired with an Oscar worthy wink. I have an Oscar at home, currently sitting on a shelf in a room that I've just put all my awards and other stuff in. I barely go in there.

My answer to the reporter is so good that I'm almost believing this shit myself.

"Offft!" The woman fans herself and thanks me as I'm finally escorted away by my manager Phil, who manages to sense I want out. He's known it for the last few weeks.

Steering me into the venue, he pushes a drink into my hand and I take a long swig, "I'm done with this". I tell him flatly.

"I can see". He nods.

"Not the premiere, everything. The films, acting..."

Phil interrupts. "Steve...I know", throwing me a look of understanding. He's seen it in my eyes recently. Watching me slowly crumble. "And I'm agreeing with you. You need to be the Steve Rogers you have to and want to be - not the one putting on a face for the cameras..."

"What'll you tell them all? The media?" I ask.

He snorts at this. "I'm not telling them shit and quite frankly they don't even deserve a reason. But just know I'm on the other end of the phone ok? You need to talk crap to someone at 3am then just call, but this decision? Well you and I both know it's for the best before you spiral. But just...make sure that you're not fully alone, ok?".

I nod, glad to know that he'll always be there regardless of the fact his biggest client is throwing everything away. "You know I won't be, and I won't spiral either, but if I have to sit through this crap any longer then I might just".

Phil puts the phone to his ear and calls for the car. Quickly making some lame excuse before hurrying me out the back way. "Remember, end of the phone. Call me when you land just so I know you're ok".

"That's the thing. We both know I'm not, not sure I'll ever be".

"You will be, but you need to focus on getting your head straight". He smiles kindly and closes the door, hitting the roof of the car with his hand to tell them to take me away.

As far as I'm concerned, I'm just as dead as Rip Rawley films will be. Speculation will be rife for the months that follow this until they finally disperse and I'm just another name that fades away.

Gone, but never quite forgotten to those who still want to know whether I may return again.

And in my mind? It's not and never will be an option.