[It matters, he thinks. It always does. Every little bit that a person can brush off as nothing always ends up as something, and he knows this now, so much time having passed and all the weight of living having built up.

When she asks, he gives a soft huff, ready to answer easily, but





his mind blanks. He isn’t sure what he's supposed to say, even as instantaneously as the gut reaction to answer had come. He tries to wonder why, but instead feels a mind-numbing nothingness, not even sure of if he’s confused himself or if he’s forgotten something. Either way, it doesn’t feel particularly important. Probably just his poor sleep catching up with him.

(Unknown to him, the reality lays hidden from his consciousness, memories seeded deep in his brain of one Steve Rogers that had been his best friend entirely inaccessible to his conscious thought. Were it still within his grasp, it would be what had driven him for many years, but without memory of the importance of Steve, much of his past seems quite meaningless.)

After a moment, he closes his mouth and hums, soft self-reprimand of the oddness his exhaustion seems to have brought on before he shakes his head to reply properly.]

Can’t say that I have. Not beyond what I had to do to get by. I think I was mostly only around to make other people feel that way.