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#so here's like x amt of words about steve struggling with his body
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steve sometimes feels like his body is not his own.
like sometimes he looks down at his hands and thinks 'that's not right, they should be smaller ' with such absolutely certainty that it hurts like an ache when he realizes that his hands will never be that small again. he still buys the wrong size shirts more often than not, even after getting defrosted.
and it's not like he misses his old body — not dying every 3 weeks from an illness is so amazing. who knew breathing could feel so good? — but for all intents and purposes, it was still his body. the body he grew up with. with it's skin that bruised too easily and his wrists that looked like they would break if someone touched them a little too hard. it was that body that fought off rheumatic fever, that got through hundreds of asthma attacks, that held itself up through fights with half of brooklyn. it was his old body that got it's Last Rites 4 times. it was his old body he learned how to walk and run and live in. that made it to 21 despite all the doctors telling ma he'd be lucky to make it to 12. 
it was with his old hands he patched up becca and ruth. it was his old arms that sweet baby ‘liza loved being held in, much to the amusement of aunt winnie. it was with his old arms that he gestured wildly with when talking politics with uncle george. it was his old body that still held the impressions of ma hugging him.
it was his knobby knees and weak lungs that ran after bucky through brooklyn. it was his old body he learned how to love and hate. learned how to lift up even when the eugenicists slipped flyers under their door. it was with his old knuckles he learned how to make a punch count. it was with his old voice that he learned how to speak up, learned to make his voice heard.
these days people hear him without speaking. these days he doesn’t have to punch anyone, he can just loom and glare. they’ll run off easy enough. everything comes easy to this body. this body’s never had to work a day in it’s life. never felt the deliriousness of having a fever so high, you start seeing your da again. never felt the desperation of needing to breathe — never felt the relief, the joy, the elation, the rush of making it through another life-threatening illness.
god, all of this is so fucking stupid. who complains about not having to worry about making through the winter? who fucking complains when their body gets “fixed”? 
(steve carefully tries not to think about the word ‘fixed’. like there was something about him that needed to be remade. he is their personal frankenstein’s monster. taken apart and sewn back together, again and again and again, whenever the war effort needs more fuel. how long has it been since he was just stevie? just bucky’s babydoll? just ma’s stíofán? he’s so tired. he is captain america.)
but there’s no going back now. there’s no injection to undo the serum. he’s just gonna have to live with the fact that his shoulders will always feel too broad. there is nothing to change the fact that he had to relearn how to use a pencil again. that he’ll never tuck neatly under bucky’s chin again. that his stomach will never concave again. that his feet are three sizes up from what they used to be. he just gonna have to live with the sensation of his body being Wrong, Wrong, Wrong. 
(he feels a lot like that boy zia rosa in the downstairs apartment used to read to him about. the one they made a picture on — pinocchio. “look ma, bucky! i’m a real boy now!” except, he was real before wasn’t he? he was someone before serum. he’s a Someone now. he’ll never be himself again.)
when his plane crashes into the ice, steve knows that this is the end. that nobody will remember steven grant rogers. nobody will know bucky’s stevie — all 94 pounds of righteousness and trouble. nobody will remember ma’s stíofán — compassionate and sweet, forever trying to do the right thing. nobody will know about becca’s second big brother, ruth’s knight in shining armor, ‘liza’s favorite sleeping spot. when his plane crashes, that 5′4′’, 100-pounds-soaking-wet, kid from the slums of brooklyn will be forgotten. what a shame he thinks that kid was better than 10 captain america’s put together. 
(he sobs quietly in a darkened corner of the smithsonian when he realized he’ll never be steven grant rogers again. 70 years later and his body is still Wrong, Wrong, Wrong.) 
it would've been nice he thinks to be small without the illnesses. steve doesn’t look in mirrors anymore. 
(the day he realized he couldn't tuck himself into the crook of bucky's neck like he used to without contorting his body, he has to excuse himself into woods. he spends the next 30 minutes, hidden behind the widest tree he can find (his shoulders still stuck out slightly), trying desperately to ignore the ache in his chest. trying his best to ignore the absolute sense of certainty that he’s in the wrong body. 
bucky finds him out there 20 minutes later, staring blankly into the distance. carefully, bucky leads him back to their tent, lays him down gently, and goes about making him Better. bucky always made things better. but then bucky’s gone, brain splattered across the swiss alps and steve is horrifyingly numb. what was the point of a brand new body, of being made into a Real Boy, if he couldn’t save the only person who saw him? if he couldn’t save the one he loved (loves.)?
it had always been him and bucky and if bucky’s not here, well- then steve’s not gonna be here either. 3 days later, his plane’s crashing into the artic and his eyes are slipping shut and it’s bliss. for a moment, at least.)
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