through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault...
- Confiteor
Steve sends a letter, finds an apartment in a half-size city somewhere upstate, and tells himself he doesn't have depression.
He misses New York. He misses a lot of things, a lot of people, but the place is easiest to center all those feelings of longing. He is a man out of time, and now a man in exile.
I don't have depression, he reminds himself, but if he did, it's not like he could call anyone.
He threw away his phone; he's off the radar-they all are, what the media calls "Team Cap."
He went off on his own—no Avengers, no ties, just a rucksack on his back and what feels like another ten years laying on his ageless shoulders.
The worst part is that he was right about some of it.
The worst part is that he thought he could save them.
The worst part is—always—that he can't turn back time.
...
When someone (Tony? If Tony would do anything for him-) figures out pardons, and paperwork, and letting off-the-radar become under-the-radar, Steve stays where he is.
His punishment is his own.
...
Natasha finds him first.
He's surprised she doesn't just kick open the door, but she knocks on it hard enough to mean business.
"I know you're in there, Rogers," she growls, and there's no point in pretending he isn't.
He opens the door and she glares at him. "What the hell, Steve. Just…what the hell." She hugs him, rib-cracking tight, even for Captain America—and he lets his forehead rest on her shoulder for just a second.
She pushes past him and the guards go up again. He hasn't given much thought to his living arrangements but in a flash he knows he doesn't want her to see.
Too late. "Steve," she says, and he sees what she sees—the Army-issue cot, the bedroll, the rucksack. There's a pizza box on the counter and that's all.
Natasha pauses by the pizza box, fingers hovering over the grease stains. "Giving up on your abs?" she cracks, but it falls a little flat.
"It doesn't matter what I eat," Steve says, because it doesn't, the super-soldier armor of flesh and blood is resilient, and because…it doesn't.
...
"We miss you," Nat says, sitting on his cot with her legs tucked up like it's one of Tony's comfortable sofas.
Style royal, we. Steve wonders who's contained in it. He's no longer part of a "we"—if he's lost someone only once, that's merciful.
"I need time," he says. Time for what, he doesn't say. In the letter to Tony he said he'd come when called, come when needed.
He doubts there will ever be a call. He no longer knows who would need him.
"You were right about Barnes," Nat says. "Right about the Accords."
The words are gently spoken, kindly meant, but Steve flinches. If he's right on one score, that only makes the wrong more shameful—wrongly believing he could hold back the tides of another man's destiny and history.
Wrong, he thinks, wrong all along. He only saw the real Tony Stark when he broke him.
"Sharon's been asking around for you," Nat says. Steve's given up asking how Nat knows the thing she knows. "Did you talk to her?"
He shakes his head. There's a lump in his throat where words should be, and he's not even sure if it's emotion; it's more the effects of isolation. He hasn't done much talking awhile. This is Steve Rogers on ice, but not because he saved the world.
"I don't deserve to talk to her," is what comes out, finally.
Nat rolls her eyes. "Men and their pity parties," she says, and hunts through the refrigerator until she finds more pizza. She eats it cold.
"How are you?" Steve asks, spreading his hands out on his knees.
"Struggling," Nat answers. He's grateful for her honesty, even if it hurts. She goes on, "Everyone's walking on eggshells. Clint went back home. Wanda went with him. Vision's probably haunting their every step."
"Sam?" Steve asks, because he shouldn't have left Sam behind.
"Sam's going to be dropping by soon, and you'd better let him in." She fixes him with a steely look. "What happened to not hanging your team out to dry, Steve?"
Steve doesn't have an answer. He just sees Tony's face—I know that road—and the dingy little room seems to spin around him.
"Sam's OK," Natasha says softly.
He wants to ask about Tony, she wants to tell him, but they can't seem to get the words out.
Steve's here. Here if they need him. Here if Tony wants to bring the band back together, here if Tony Stark can forgive him.
I knew, Steve thinks. But I didn't know what to do. It's not an excuse, but it is a plea. There's no guidebook for being a hero; he does the best he can, the best any man can do who's supposed to be dead and gone.
He wonders how much Natasha even knows. He wonders what she thinks of him.
Nat gets up. "I've eaten the rest of your pizza," she says. "Guess that's my cue to leave." There's something fighting behind her eyes, but Steve can't meet it, can only offer a weak smile.
"Thanks for coming," he murmurs, walking her to the door.
She pauses with her fingers curved around the handle. "You'll let Sam in, when he comes?" It's more of an order than a question.
"Yeah. I'll be here." He doesn't have depression, but he can't even think about moving. It's too much work.
"Ok." She hugs him again, holding on longer this time. "You're a good man," she says, close by his ear. "The world always needs good men."
He once asked who Tony would be without the suit of armor.
He never thought he'd get an honest answer, until the screen flickered to life in the Hydra bunker.
Steve lets Natasha go. "There are better men," he says, and shuts the door quietly behind her.
...
"Well, this place is crap," Sam says, when he comes.
Steve huffs out a laugh, and pauses, realizing it's the first time he's laughed in a long time.
Sam doesn't eat Steve's pizza, but he brought a six-pack of beer and offers one to Steve.
"Captain America can't get drunk," Steve said bitterly.
"Still has tastebuds, though, right?"
Steve drinks a beer.
"You've got to stop punishing yourself," Sam says, blunt and kind. "We all make calls. You've made a hell of a lot of right ones."
"Doing the right thing isn't a privilege," Steve tells him. He's got to stop clenching his jaw; it hurts. "It's a duty."
"And you've been a soldier for a long time," Sam says softly. "You've served. And it's not your fault."
No, Steve thinks. It's not his fault that Howard and Maria Stark are dead. But it's his guilt.
I know that road.
"I want you to come back to the city," Sam says.
"I can't."
"Yes, you can. It's blown over; nobody's got your name on a billboard."
"The world needs time," Steve says. He feels like he's drowning.
"I'm not asking for Captain America." Sam's dead serious, with the straightforward, million-mile gaze he has before a fight. "I'm asking for my friend, Steve Rogers."
He's my friend.
So was I.
The waterfalls of Africa are pounding in Steve's ears. He wonders if Bucky can hear them.
"It wouldn't be fair to Tony," Steve says, his last line of defense. The words find their way out, even though it's the first time he's let himself mention Tony's name. He's surprised how easy it is, when all is said and done.
"Tony Stark is a lot of things." Sam shrugs. "I think he's stronger than any of us thought. Helped get us out of this mess, anyway. But I'm not telling you to pay him a visit. I'm telling you I've got a nice place in Brooklyn and there's an extra room. I could use help with the rent and your Social Security is great." He grins, tentative, and it widens when Steve smiles back.
"Fine," Steve says. "Fine."
Sam slaps him on the shoulder. "Good man," he says.
The words ring in Steve's ears.