Unsolicited advice is one of those things that most people rarely visibly react to, instead choosing to seethe quietly in their own pit of rage. It goes hand in hand with casual misogyny, subtle racism, and people who go gluten free because it's trendy.
That's not to say everyone doesn't have that moment where they find themselves giving out advise that nobody ever asked for, which really is just human nature. But then so is getting pissed off when the third person in the space of an hour says 'All you need to do is get out there and meet people, there's no sense in hiding in your apartment every day, just get out there."
As if getting out there is an actual thing and not just some vague directive to head to a bar, get fucked up, and hope the person that ends up fucking you is more than just some skeezy barfly with a charming smile and a pickup line that seems way less cheesy after three tequilas and a jug of cheap beer.
The bustle of New York is just too much, anyway. People crammed shoulder to shoulder on the sidewalk, evenings that never really calm down, instead slipping in to nights filled with the sounds of humans going about the kind of business they do between ten at night and six in the morning. Dinner, sex, relationships, crime, laughter, partying, working, tears...
When you look at it, sitting on the couch in a fourth floor walk-up in Brooklyn isn't so bad, compared to the chaos that is waiting on the street. The internet is interesting, the History Channel plays twenty four seven if you're in the mood for an alien conspiracy, and best of all, nobody tells you to get out there.
That's the problem with being someone everyone else sees as larger than life. They don't understand that the world doesn't own you, or that you're not obliged to appear daily for the media's consumption. You're not there for the enjoyment of others, you won't always be right there to protect them, and you're sure as hell not going to listen to the tabloids asking where Captain America has disappeared to since the aliens came through the hole in the sky.
The world seems to think the Avengers live their lives like a circus – training together by day, partying together by night – all together in The Tower Tony Built like one big happy family. Maybe Tony's built the Hulk his own giant playroom for when he gets angry, and that there's an entire floor dedicated to Hawkeye and Black Widow's epic sparring sessions. Thor has his own apartment decorated in gold and red, with a red door and a giant doorknocker shaped like something humans still consider mythical, and Cap has a floor directly above Tony Stark and Pepper Potts that looks like something straight out of the forties – surround sound and flat screen notwithstanding, obviously. There's no way Tony Stark's going to let anyone live without the latest technology in his house, damnit.
Steve hasn't seen Tony since the attempted invasion. He's seen Natasha here and there, mostly when SHIELD needs something done quickly and with minimal fuss. Natasha says Hawkeye has dropped off the map for a bit, getting some help from a psychologist and reevaluating his career choices. Nobody he's spoken to has seen Bruce since the day Thor left.
He thinks he saw Pepper once, at a Whole Foods buying a sandwich. He wasn't entirely sure, but then that's to be expected when its your first time seeing someone in person, rather than on a screen or the front page of a newspaper.
Yesterday he ran to Coney Island and sat on the beach watching the Wonder Wheel. It was a sunny day, with a mild breeze blowing from the North. The pleasant smell of hot dogs and donuts wafted toward the sand when the wind hit from a particular angle. It was nice. He has a beard now, and his hair is short. The run had energized him, and he sat with a smile as he ate a bag of cotton candy and dug his feet into the sand. He'd taken his trainers off and stuffed his socks into them, not bothered about the sand chafing on the jog back to Bay Ridge.
Did that count as getting out there? He felt for a few hours, with the salt air and the junk food, and for a moment when the smells and sounds and tastes all combined with the feel of the rough sand against his feet... maybe he really was alive again.
There was a brief moment when he returned to his apartment, sat on the fire escape, cracked a beer, and watched the evening sun fall behind the building across the street, that a lightness overcame him, even if only for a few seconds before there was screech of tires on the road and a string of expletives. He barked a short laugh and finished his beer. Someone looked up from the sidewalk, and he smiled and tipped the bottle to them before climbing back inside.
His phone was ringing. He ignored it and instead dropped the empty bottle on the coffee table and flicked the TV on. The phone rang again, and as the image of Tony Stark's Malibu Barbie Dream House falling into the ocean replays in slow motion on the screen, he slid his thumb across the phone screen to answer.
"Rogers."
"Have you made a decision about D.C.?"
"At this moment I'm more concerned about what's sliding off a cliff into the Pacific… anything I need to be worried about?"
"Under control. Honestly, if you want to get involved then go for it, but if it were me I wouldn't bother." Maria Hill's voice cut through the quiet drone of the ambient noise from the street and the television, and Steve frowned. The silence dragged for a few moments before she continued. "Did you see Iron Patriot? Talk about a fucking embarrassment… poor Rhodes."
"Were they in the house?"
More silence.
"They were in the house?"
There's a screeching noise in the background and Hill swore. There were some shuffling noises before she came back on the line.. "DC?"
He glanced back at the TV. There was a slow motion replay of the moment the missile hit the house playing. Then the picture cut to a clip of Tony surrounded by reporters and throwing a phone.
"I'm serious about the discharge, Maria." There's no reply, and he assumes she's maneuvering in traffic. Thirty seconds later he realizes there's no background noise and he feels his face heating up in anger. "Did you put me on mute?"
There's a knock on his door and he turns with eyes narrowing in suspicion. He steps quietly, avoiding the two creaky spots in the floor, and looks through the peephole.
"No need to get incredulous, Rogers. Your neighbors were having a minor domestic on the ground floor, I knew it was possible to use fuck in a multitude of ways, but those two in 1C really know how to get the best out of the c-word."
