"A Toy Story"
When he was eight, Steve's mom brought home a toy soldier she got at a second hand store. She didn't say it was second hand; she didn't have to. But Steve loved it all the same, because it was new, and it was his, and she'd bought it for him even though they could've used the money for something important.
"It's your birthday, Stevie," she said, pressing it into his hands. "It's important to me. And I know you like soldiers."
"Thanks, Mom," he said, and he kissed her on the cheek. "It's the best present ever."
That night was the first time it happened. Steve went to sleep, his toy soldier on the nightstand, and woke up a lot smaller. He heard the clock downstairs chiming midnight, and looked around. Everything was so much bigger. Was he dreaming?
"Hello."
Steve peeked out from under the sheet, and stared up at his soldier, who waved. Steve stuck his arm out, and waved back. The soldier nodded, then with a very big jump, hopped down onto the bed. He barely made a dent in the mattress. He held out his hand, and Steve took it.
"My name is Phil Coulson, Private Phil Coulson," he said.
"S-Steve Rogers," Steve said, and shook his hand. Private Coulson dropped it and stood to attention.
"How are you, soldier?" he said.
"Uh… I'm not a soldier," Steve said. "I mean, I'd like to be. But I'm only eight. I turned eight today." He scrambled to his feet, and straightened up. To him, Private Coulson was the height of a normal man, which meant that Steve was toy-sized now. "Say. This isn't gonna last forever, is it?"
"What's that, Rogers?"
"Me being small, like this. I'm usually a lot taller."
Private Coulson chuckled. "I'm aware of that. I do know what's going on around me during the day. It's the hour between midnight and one that I come alive. As my new owner—"
"Actually, my mom bought you." Then Steve blushed, ashamed that he'd interrupted. "I'm sorry, Private Coulson. Go on."
"I was a gift to you, which makes you my new owner," he said. Then he smiled. "And call me Phil. As long as I can call you Steve."
"Of course," Steve said, wide-eyed. "Yes, sir."
Every night, Phil and Steve would spend an hour talking, about the army, about school, art, Steve's mom. He soon got to realising that they'd need a way to get down to the floor, and have something to do, not just sit around on the bed. So Steve, who'd always been good about putting away his toys, would make sure that he had something hidden beneath his bed. If the moon wasn't out, they'd use Steve's battered old flashlight to see by.
Sometimes he thought it had to be a dream; but after they wrote on one of Steve's toys once, and the words were still there in the morning, he knew it had to be real. It had to be magic. Steve had never believed in magic; not until now.
He still didn't have any real friends at school. Clint Barton was okay, and he and Steve went to all the same schools, but he kind of kept to himself as well.
But it didn't matter. He had Phil now. The soldier encouraged Steve in his art, and helped with his homework when he could, especially when Steve's mom couldn't. But with Phil's encouragement, Steve started selling drawings when he was eleven. By the time he was fourteen, he was doing commissions. He wasn't good at all his school subjects. However, Phil helped him with some stuff, especially history.
It wasn't just academics, either. Steve gave all that he could to his mom, although she made him start up a bank account and put at least some of his earnings into that. Once they could afford better medical treatment, including better medication, Phil taught Steve all these different exercises.
"Were you ever in the army?" Steve asked between push-ups. Phil was sitting on a toy block, and had his feet propped up on Steve's moving back.
"I have the right knowledge for a toy," Phil said, arching an eyebrow. He'd taught Steve the meaning of irony. "Why do you ask?"
"You could've been a drill sergeant," Steve said, and he did another push-up.
"I'm a private," Phil said, and he removed his legs from Steve's back. "That's enough for tonight. It's nearly five to one."
"Hey," Steve said, and he grinned. "Watch me climb."
Then he scuttled up the blanket rope with great speed, hand over hand, reaching the top in less than ten seconds. Phil laughed, shaking his head, and he followed. Steve hauled him up the last couple of inches, and Phil toppled onto him, then quickly rolled off.
"When I was a kid, I never would've thought I could do that," Steve said. After a second's pause, he jumped to his feet. "Back to starting positions, Private Coulson."
"Sir," Phil said, and he saluted. He seemed a little breathless, staring up at Steve. "You're still a kid."
"I'm fifteen," Steve said, and he trekked across the blankets to get back to his pillow. "It's been over seven years, you know. Next birthday, we'll have known each other for half my life."
"Yeah," Phil said, and he swung himself up onto the nightstand. "Good night, Steve."
"Good night, Phil."
It was sometime after he turned sixteen that Steve was offered an art scholarship to college, with permission to continue his commissions, in whichever subject area he chose.
"You could be an art curator," Phil said. "Maybe you could specialise in miniatures?"
Steve snorted, and looked up at Phil from where he was stomach-down on the floor, using doll-sized pencils to sketch his soldier friend. Really, he had a bit of a crush on Phil, which was ridiculous. Private Coulson was a toy, not a real person. He was ageless – timeless – and he never gave any indication that he could feel the same way. Steve watched, but the man was absolutely unfathomable. He got flustered the one time Steve flirted with him (claiming that he was practising), so he never tried it again.
"I don't know, Phil," he said. "The only reason I get good marks in history is `cause you help me."
"Not true," Phil said, leaning forward on the toy block, his hands holding on either side, keeping him balanced. "I haven't needed to help you in a long time. You're more intelligent than you give yourself credit for, Steve."
Steve ducked his head, hiding his blush. "So, art historian or curator. What if I did something completely different?"
"Such as?"
"I'm athletic," Steve said, and he rolled onto his back. "Even got these. See?" He lifted his shirt to show off his abs, but pulled it down when he realised that Phil was staring, and began to feel self-conscious. "I could… I could do something in sports?"
"You could do anything you put your mind to," Phil said, and he dragged his gaze back to Steve's. There was silence as they watched each other. Then Steve's pencil began to dig into his side, and he had to roll back onto his front, ruining the moment. He massaged the area where a bruise would inevitably form, and gave Phil a quick smile.
"Well, I've got a year to decide," he said. "In the meantime, I'm gonna keep helping Mom."
The year slipped by fast. Slowly, Steve began to fall in love with his toy. His toy. How did that happen to anyone? But he couldn't help it. Phil was sweet, funny, sarcastic, and really smart. He'd been Steve's best friend – sometimes only friend – for more than half his life. Steve had tried to date girls, even boys, and failed. Either he was brilliant at self-sabotage, or he knew that they could never measure up to Private Phil Coulson.
One of the most awkward days at school had been when he was doodling his and Phil's initials in the margin of his notebook, and his girlfriend at the time, Peggy Carter, caught him doing it. She thought that they were her initials. Steve was just grateful that he was dating her, not someone else.
He decided, in the end, to take the art scholarship and do a double degree in history and education. His history and art teachers were excited for him, and offered any help they could give while he was at college, and afterwards. They even promised him character references, which he was happy to accept, and included them with his application. His mom was over the moon, and told him that she'd been building up an account for money to send him to college. He knew it would be cheaper to board there than stay at home, and have to travel every day.
He was accepted, one of the first at the school with a placement, and he and Phil celebrated with thimbles full of warm soda, and some large cracker crumbs.
"A feast," Phil said, and he and Steve toasted each other. "To the college boy."
"Not yet," Steve said, though he couldn't stop a smile. "I still have to pass all my subjects."
"You will," Phil said. "Then we have the summer nights to prepare you. I'll…" He looked down at his feet, and played with the edge of a crumb. "I'll miss you when you're gone."
"What?"
"I said I'll—"
"No, wait," Steve said, holding up his hands. "I'm taking you with me, Phil."
"…Really?"
"Yeah, of course. Since you came into my life, you've brought good luck. I don't want to lose that, or you."
Phil smiled. "You'll never lose me, Steve."
Summer was a mass of preparations. Steve and his mom visited the college campus after graduation, filled out paperwork, got a suitcase, started buying stationery and textbooks. Then they spent as much time together during the day that they could. They went to the movies, ball games, parks, even a café. Steve continued his drawings, his portfolio growing by the week.
He didn't have any worries about Phil; they'd always have their nights together. So Phil watched Steve draw, or they talked, or star-gazed.
Four night before Steve had to leave for college, he leaned into Phil's space and kissed him. He'd never done much kissing, and it was probable that Phil never had… you know, being a toy and all.
Steve pulled back within seconds, his eyes closed, and he whispered, "I love you, Phil."
He finally opened his eyes after an age of silence, and his heart dropped into his slippers when he saw Phil's expression of shock; lips parted, eyes wide as saucers, completely still. Steve lowered his head, and tried to move away.
That was when Phil grabbed him close and held on.
"Do you mean it, Steve?" he asked. "Really mean it? Do you love me like a friend, or are you—"
"In love with you, Phil. I have been for months."
Phil cupped his cheek and pulled him into a proper kiss, the kind Steve had never had before, and desperately wanted again and again.
Then something must have alerted Phil, because he pushed Steve away, and quickly stood.
"It's nearly one," he said.
Steve, who'd been so elated, felt his happiness dimming again, and he got up on unsteady legs. Phil helped him along the desk where they star-gazed, and they slid along string from that to the nightstand. Steve jumped from there onto his bed, and then looked up at Phil, who was already standing at attention again.
"Can I kiss you again tomorrow?" Steve asked. Phil glanced at him.
"We can do more than kiss, if you want," he said. Then the clock began to chime. Phil's eyes snapped back into place, and Steve burrowed under his covers, magic causing him to fall asleep instantly.
The next night, they did do more than kiss. They did more than just touch. It should've been weird, a toy being Steve's first. But he knew this man – not a toy, a man – for years, shared every night with him, and fallen in love with him. It was crazy, but it made perfect sense. It was perfect insanity, and Phil almost got dressed and back into position too late. Steve hadn't even known that Phil could remove his clothes.
"I love you," he called softly from his bed. Phil shut his eyes, and smiled.
"I love you, too," he said. He opened his eyes just as the clock began to strike, and the smile remained on his lips. The last thing that Steve saw was his toy soldier turning back to wood, looking more joyful than he ever had before.
Twenty-three hours later, Phil stayed wood, and Steve stayed normal-sized, sleeping through to morning. When he woke up, and saw everything untouched, with no memories of talking to Phil the night before, he panicked. What was going on? This had never happened before, not even when Steve was sick. He fretted the whole day, and his mom said that it was perfectly normal for him to be nervous.
But it wasn't perfect! Phil was perfect; what Steve had with Phil was perfect. And he hated normal. Normal was staying the same size. Normal was sleeping through the night.
Normal was toys which didn't come to life, and give Steve the most amazing experiences he'd ever had.
Steve left for college, his heart still refusing to acknowledge that their romance had been doomed from the start. He took Phil with him, just in case. Maybe all they needed was a change of scenery? That's all. He couldn't have lost Phil forever. No. He couldn't have. And if his room-mate thought Steve was too old to have a toy soldier, to hell with him. Steve would defend Phil to the death.
"At least he's tidy," Steve muttered when he got to room 616. He'd accepted his information pack, and glanced at the room number. His room-mate's name might've been there; it might not. Steve didn't care. He wanted to fall asleep tonight and talk to Phil again. Even if it was his last chance, or just in a dream, he had to say goodbye.
Steve unpacked, having already noticed that his room-mate's suitcase was under his bed, school stuff on his desk, and a few things on the nightstand. For a moment, he thought it looked like there was a toy propped up against the pillow, which would at least assure him that he wouldn't be teased for having his. But then he heard footsteps outside, and bent over to shove his case under his bed as well. The door opened as he was hanging the last checked shirt in his wardrobe.
"Are you S. Rogers?"
"That'd be me," Steve said, and he shut the wardrobe door firmly. He sighed, and began to turn around. "And you're…?"
Then he stopped breathing, and just stared.
The boy was about his age, so he was probably a freshman as well. He had light brown hair, lying flat against his head, and eyes that Steve could tell were blue-grey even at this distance; not just because he was an artist, but because those eyes were about as wide as his. They were pretty much the same height, Steve maybe a little taller. His room-mate was wearing dark blue slacks and a white button-up shirt, with a couple of buttons open at the top. It took Steve a couple of seconds to realise that he was getting nearer, but couldn't stop. He didn't stop until they were only inches away from each other.
"What's your name?" Steve asked softly.
"Phil Coulson," the boy said. Steve steadied himself against the frame over his bed. "You're Steve, aren't you? Steve Rogers?"
"Yeah," Steve said, nodding slowly. This Phil was nearly the spitting image of his Phil, except a couple of decades younger. "Oh God. What the hell?"
Phil shook his head. "I don't know. But you look just like…" He gestured to his bed.
"So do you," Steve said. He bent over and picked up his soldier, while Phil darted to the side and grabbed his. "Private Phil Coulson."
"Not actually a private," Phil said. His smile was just the same; so was the way he cocked his head, and bowed it slightly. "You're Captain America, Steve Rogers. A superhero, just like out of a comic book. I learnt all about angles from you; even made it onto the discus team, after I shield-proofed my room."
"You saved my life, giving me strength, helping me earn money through my art."
"You're an artist?" Phil said, his eyes lighting up. "I didn't know that."
"I didn't know you're a discus-player," Steve said. Phil laughed, and Steve just had to kiss him. Phil stopped laughing, but he moaned as Steve deepened the kiss one lick at a time, until they were full-on making out. When lack of oxygen became an issue, they separated.
"Christ, how did this happen?" Phil said, and he untangled himself from Steve. "I think we need to talk about this."
"I think we have to be soulmates," Steve blurted out. Phil glanced at him, and then placed the Steve toy back on his bed.
"Because we each have a doll which looks like the other one?"
"And because you sound the same as Private Coulson. You sound the same, you talk the same, you have the same mannerisms."
"You're like Captain America as well," Phil murmured. "Only a little younger."
"Ever since my eighth birthday, I've spent every night with Phil Coulson the soldier, until a few days ago."
"I got Captain America as a Fourth of July present, when I was eight," Phil said.
"That's my birthday," Steve said. "Independence Day."
"And… when you say a few days ago…?"
"That's just it," Steve said. He stood his soldier up on the nightstand as always, and sat on the edge of his bed. He sighed. "I told him I loved him, because I do. I fell in love with hi… you." He buried his face in his hands, but looked at Phil between his parted fingers. "Then the next night, we made… we made love. It was… God, it was beautiful. I've never been so happy. Then the night after that… nothing. I slept all the way through, and I have since then."
"That's when Steve and I did it," Phil said. "Three nights ago. My first time. Only time."
"Mine, too," Steve said. He lowered his hands, and clasped them in his lap. "It's all been magic, right?" Phil nodded. "So magic brought us together. It wants us to be together, Phil. I figure that makes us soulmates, and I'm sure as hell not willing to fight destiny. Who knows what kind of disaster could happen?"
Phil's lips quirked up at the edges. "I don't think anyone can argue that logic."
"Of course not," Steve said. He paused, then stood up, grabbing his toy soldier on the way. He strode over to Phil's side, and placed his toy next to Captain America. Then he grasped Phil's hands, pulled him to his feet, and led him towards his bed.
"It's mid-morning," Phil said, raising an eyebrow. Steve itched to kiss that eyebrow.
"I'm not going to seduce you `til tonight," Steve said.
"You're very forward, aren't you?"
"Then we'll go out or something," Steve said, rolling his eyes. "Either way, that can wait until night. In the meantime, I want to learn as much as I can about you. So… wanna go for a walk with me, Private Coulson?"
Phil kissed him gently. "Love to, Captain Rogers."
Am I going to that special hell?
Anyway, this was a very strange story, and I'm not sure that I've read anything like it before. Certainly never written anything like it before. Hmm. What did you think? Am I terribly twisted, or just partially twisted?