True North [Stucky Fanfiction - IN PROGRESS]

01 - It's Too Quiet

It had been eight months.

Not that this Wednesday — or, was it Thursday? — would have any significance at all. The world used to run on time. Years, months, days, seconds, milliseconds, everything happening faster and faster, right before the eyes. Technology would advance faster than anyone ever thought possible, and every time Steve had interacted with any viewing screens of Tony's or had a piece of artificial intelligence guide him up the tower, Steve had always heard a whooshing sound slipping past his ears, an ever-present reminder of how fast the world moved.

And then it all just... stopped.

The change hadn't been noticeable until a cafe barista had collapsed at the counter. Steve had glanced up from his coffee and launched himself forward, but by then, others were starting to feel it too. The initial feeling is acute dizziness, foreign doctors had said, but the rest of the symptoms set in quickly. Coughing, itchy throat, paralysis, and finally, heart failure, all in a matter of minutes. It terrorized the country in waves, spreading from New York to Alaska and then across the ocean to China and Russia and Europe until it wrapped the world in a biohazardous fog. In some sort of sick karma, the world had turned humanity's own chemical weapons against them, effectively ending the human race.

Well, not all of them. Steve's toaster pops in the background, and cautiously, he gets up off the chair to retrieve his breakfast. Despite the permanent raspiness in his voice and the arthritic grind of his joints from time to time, Steve is alive, one of the few people on the planet who still is.

As he spreads butter sparingly on his toast and sprinkles a dash of pepper on his eggs, he wishes Thor would come down from Asgard to visit him. The pair had always gotten along well, both in battle and out, but this house always feels so empty when he's not here with his deafening, boisterous laughter and Asgardian alcohol that almost makes Steve forget his predicament.

Almost.

Every motion feels too loud, and he flinches at the sound the knife makes when he drops it into the sink. He's never got used to the emptiness and it seems to suck his soul from the inside. Besides the gentle clinking of porcelain, he doesn't talk to fill that void; he just lets it rest, heavy as usual. He carries his plate back over to the couch, the fork scraping against the plate and the graphite of his pencil going over and over a simple sketch. It was rudimentary, basic, all jagged lines and rough edges in a way that definitely was not his style, but once the pages had filled with smudged portraits of people he tried to remember and the curled edges of wheat plants growing outside, he needed something else to draw.

He never once drew a self-portrait. He tried, many times, but every time he looked in the mirror he'd see Captain America, all plastic helmets and a single white star emblazoned on his chest. A hero. A defender. An Avenger.

His days of fighting aliens with glowing spears and four arms were over. Every drawing would end up scribbled over in anger and frustration at the pitiful shell of the man he once was. The dark flecks under his eyes and sallow cheeks weren't what the public saw and that's why Steve stays on his own little farm, alone. It's better this way, he tells himself. And every day, he doubts it.

The day passes slowly. Steve bustles around the small farmhouse, eventually going outside to feed the animals. Some were affected and some weren't, but with the vast majority of humanity dead, Steve had taken it upon himself to rescue strays that couldn't make it on their own. At first, he had collected them all in his own home, hanging dozens of leashes on the coat hooks inside the door, but eventually, it became too much and he built a massive holding facility in his backyard. The animals were happy there, too, especially as Steve collected hundreds of dogs, cats, turtles, hamsters, and chickens. He made the rounds, cleaning up the grass in their cages, using a hose to give them fresh water, and filling their bowls with new food. They were his new family, and even though there was no one left to memorialize this small good act, he did it anyway. There's no point in being a hero if there's no one to save, but in this case, Steve did the right thing.

As he stares up at the sun, the dusty air filling his lungs, he sends up one last wish for a friend.