Just a Kid From Brooklyn

Frozen for seventy years; how was that supposed to make him feel? Most of everyone that he had known were dead. Most of the only home he'd ever known was either already gone or crumbling away.

The ceiling of his apartment, that he was quite sure was the same as the one he had had before, seemed to capture his interest more than anything.

Plain white. No spackle, no popcorn detail. Just white. Free of color. Free of change, as far as he was concerned. Change. He was growing quite a distaste for the word and action.

And worst of all, after realizing that everything he had ever known was gone, that the only girl he had ever loved had married and loved someone else, that his best friend was still yet I be found, was that even though he was big and strong and fearless- everything he had ever dreamed of being- he was still being made fun of.

Capsicle, gramps, old timer- it hurt. It hurt him inside to know that everything he had fought for, had fought to be, meant nothing to anyone but a handful of people.

He wasn't Captain America to these people. He wasn't anything to these people. He wasn't even just Steve Rogers anymore.

He was, once again, just a kid from Brooklyn.