That morning, he had a dream. In some other place, in some further year, in some far away woods. His shield and your own hanging in the walls, next to portraits and paintings of halfhearted modesty. In the dream, he holds your hand — not under the table at Vought Tower while he's shouting his heart out at any and all but you — while you two have breakfast, a child in his lap, this boy who, thank god, is all you — while his thumb rubs over rings of a pipe dream where he is better than his father was.

It was the morning of ‘84, and something in the air tasted like sickness, maybe it's the battle or the dust, or the way he bashes a teammate's head on the ground, making ill use of all force and strength, in some deep, small part of him, he's scared, and confused. He does absolutely nothing about it, because he's not weak, and his hands are busy cracking ribs he fell asleep over, once.

That's the day where he becomes a blur in the history of all the heroes you despised, and the sight of him in a gas mask will haunt you until the day the ages catch up with all the modifications in your veins.

And now he's back, never quite buried. Him standing at your doorstep, exactly the same as you remember, a legend with billions of statues, looking at you with a dented suit and a disturbed look to his face, hard and unreadable. “You look older.” His voice betrays nothing, unlike you, in his eyes. Questions rush to your head faster than blood can. “I wanted it — with you, y'know. Kids, a house. S'mthing those fuckers couldn't touch, and you let ‘em take that away.” Soldier Boy's words bear a bite you wish no one, a bland reunion free of fever dreams where men like you could get a life like that, a good thing, a real one.