I used to believe in heroes

Steve writes this atop his newest sketch, pushing his thin body farther back against the head board. The image is from his dream.

Yes dream. Not dreams.

The same dream he gets every night. It is a cold day in his room of the Avengers Asylum, which he feels at this point has become more of a cell... a holding facility.

Steve looks back down at his sketch.

Its black and white, and here he is, looking himself in the eyes. Or, rather the depicted image of himself that he could only fathom when his imagination is allowed to run wild— when he closes his eyes.

He is in the same outfit in his sketch. The one from his dreams. Star-spangled, red white and blue. Here, in his dreams, he protects the innocent from the creatures of his nightmares.

The creatures that landed him in this joint.

In his dreams, he isn't alone.

There is a man in a metallic suit, who, behind the mask appears to be the most intellectually apt person he has ever met— or, thought up... although the people in his dreams... he couldn't let his imagination go that far if he wanted to...

Momentarily, he pauses to flip back a page.

I am Iron Man

These are the words directly above a sketch of the Metal Hero's mask. He has a weirdly cut, stubbly version of a beard that Steve knows will in time grow into a trademark for his character. But now, he sees the man as his age, maybe a year younger. 17, 18?

He flips the page.

I am always angry...

He hadn't seen this boy's true appearance yet, but he knew the voice. The sketch he drew of this kid was distorted, inhuman... larger, eyes that glow— they are green in his dreams but he could not exactly capture that on with a few measly pencils. Black and white had to do. This is the only one he doesn't have a guaranteed recognition for. Only the morphed features of a monster.

Flipping the page back once more—

This time, his hand freezes up, and tears form in his eyes.

I'm with you till the end of the line, pal.

The winter soldier... his best friend James Buchanan Barnes.

Growing up in the orphanage together, Bucky and Steve got really close. When the other kids enjoyed playing outside in the back of the building, jumping rope, Bucky sat by Steve in the infirmary, often reading while the weaker drew. When curfew came, he would wait till the others past out, then sneak over to Steve's bed in the infirmary. Bucky would lay with him, and ask him about the dream again. About his robot arm... about Steve's shield.

Flip.

Fortunately, I am mighty

Blond hair, big muscles, even from a young age, and an accent. Possibly Australian? The hammer yielding god of lightning with a mischievous adopted brother.

Steve closes his eyes, not caring for a moment to open them as his pencil drifts across the paper to add a small scar on the portrait's forehead. He opens his eyes. Perfect.

Flip.

This is just like Budapest all over again..

Red fire-like hair, matching the spark on her eyes.

Flip.

You and I remember Budapest very differently.

Bow and arrow, eyes sharp, ears not so keen.

Flip.

Steve's eyes are now fixated on an empty page. He picks up the pencil, it shaking in his hand as he refuses to look up, refuses to give in to the demon from his dreams that was slowly crawling across the floor towards him. He knew when you acknowledged the creature, the power is no longer set in your hands. It is passed down to the monsters. To the villains. 

Steve Rogers still believes in heroes.