Happy New Year!

Disclaimer: I don't own the Avengers.


Missions are fickle little bastards. Sometimes, it doesn't matter how much time or energy you invest in organizing every detail or mapping every possible escape route; all it takes is one person to notice your presence in a covert op and, instead of popping open a bottle of champagne on a flight home, you're running for your life.

Which is where Steve Rogers was now.

Well, to call it 'running' was a bit of a stretch. It was more of a "step-hop, step-skip" as he tried to avoid putting weight on his injured left leg. His hip was throbbing and waves of fire were radiating from the joint which was resisting even the smallest of movements. Having his motorcycle knocked out from under him by a small army—that turned out to be not so small, by the way—and sliding a good ten feet under said bike until the vehicle ground to a halt probably had something to do with that. Add to that the shoulder he had dislocated in the middle of this supposedly simple extraction, plus the bruised ribs, and anyone could conclude that this mission was going pear-shaped. Fast.

"What's your position Rogers?"

Steve blinked in shock, still not used to the concept of the comm device in his ear. He rounded a corner and was greeted by a dark alley that housed dilapidated stores and businesses. There was not a person in sight. In a cul-de-sac at the far end of the street sat a small quinjet—his ride home.

"200 yards." At his current speed though, it might as well have been a mile.

In the distance, he heard multiple motorcycles rev to life. He bit back a groan and focused on moving toward his extraction point.

"Coming in hot," he ground out through tightly gritted teeth.

The motorcycles were getting closer, he knew, as he began to hear the battle cries of the riders. They turned the corner of the long, abandoned street while Steve was still over 100 yards from the jet.

Drawing from the depleted depths of Captain America's endurance, Steve managed to kick it up a small notch, moving faster than anyone in his condition should have. Pain burst through the strained muscles of his shoulder and he pressed his left arm tightly against his ribs, his hand clutching his right elbow in an attempt to keep the joint immobile as he hobbled along.

"I'm going to need…a little help…" he gasped as he veered towards the cover of an abandoned office building.

"On it!" a young voice—the pilot of the S.H.I.E.L.D. issue quinjet—replied, sounding surprisingly enthusiastic about being asked to assist.

There was no time to worry about that now. He had to focus.

Step-hop. Step-skip. He could do this.

The motorcycles were right behind him now. He risked a glance left and saw the leader pull his weapon and aim it directly at Steve's head.

"Sooner would be better!" the soldier hissed.

"Ready to die, fool?" The leader questioned through a heavy smirk. With his heightened vision, Steve saw the slight tightening of the man's finger on the trigger and, knowing not even he could dodge a bullet at this range, starting reciting one of the prayers his mother had taught him.

His invocation was interrupted by a crisp, "Hit the deck, Captain!"

The kid couldn't really mean…Was he serious?

Then Steve heard the ominous click of a trigger and loud whistling. His military training combined with heavy doses of self-preservation kicked in and he threw himself to the ground. Ignoring the newly ignited pain coursing through his body, he pulled his limbs close and covered his head with his working arm.

A brilliant blue blast of energy pulsed over his head and, for a split second, Steve wasn't sure if the light was actually there or if his sleep-deprived mind was deluding him. But then, the wave washed over the bikes and the motorcycles appeared to just…stop working. Engines instantly quit, sending the bikes crashing into each other, while the riders were thrown from their seats, propelled forward by their momentum.

Taking advantage of the chaos, without completely understanding what just happened, Steve slapped the side of the building in search of a handhold. Tightly gripping a protruding window ledge, he managed to haul himself to his feet.

He staggered toward the small aircraft where the pilot was disassembling what looked like a portable canon with practiced efficiency. The kid chucked the case into the passenger bay, climbed into the cockpit and started flipping switches on the dashboard causing the propellers to slowly begin spinning, picking up speed until the jet was vibrating with built-up energy.

A bullet whistled high over Steve's shoulder, forcing him to grab for his own weapon, ignoring the strain on his battered body. Before he could return fire, he heard a loud whistling coming from the opposite direction and saw a trail of smoke leaving the front of the quinjet travelling toward the smoking motorcycles. A metal canister rolled into view for a split second giving Steve the opportunity to duck his head before a cacophonous roar ripped through the air.

It took everything he had left to remain standing as the shockwave barreled past him. When the air had settled, he risked a small glance over his shoulder and saw waves of thick smoke rolling from the canister, obscuring his view of the crash site.

"C'mon Captain!" the pilot yelled.

Steve scowled—not that the boy could see—and concentrated so intently, black spots began flashing in his vision.

Step-hop.

Step-skip.

Step-hop.

He reached the handrails of the ramp and clung to them like a drowning man holding a life preserver. He used his left side to lever some of the weight away from his leg and hopped awkwardly up all six steps.

He collapsed into the first seat he saw, almost moaning in relief as his body met the soft cloth seat. He weakly lifted one hand and waved his index finger in a circle.

"Yessir Captain!" the young pilot saluted before turning back to the controls. "You might want to put on your seatbelt!" he called over his shoulder as he pushed the thrusters to full throttle.

Steve fumbled with the two metal buckles with his left arm, squinting as they danced around his field of vision. He finally managed to click them together just before the plane took off.

"Did you get it?" a voice asked directly next to him. Steve didn't even have the energy to be startled.

To drained to speak, he lowered his head onto his chest, in what he hoped would be interpreted as a nod. He reached a shaking hand down the front of his armor and withdrew a small brown envelope.

The package was roughly pulled from his grasp and his hand fell back against his chest on its own accord. After what felt like hours, the man nodded his approval…or, at least, Steve thought he did. It was getting kinda hard to tell with his vision rapidly blurring.

He felt hands on his right shoulder and couldn't even pull away when the pain ratcheted up another notch.

Someone was talking to him, saying something about him knowing they had to do this now or else…Yeah, he knew. He managed to lift his head a little and forced his arm to relax, knowing what was coming next.

Three…Someone yanked on his arm and he heard a stifled cry of pain—that wasn't him, was it?—then a loud pop.

He bit down hard, his teeth tearing through his bottom lip, as the humeral head slipped back into its socket. He barely managed to suppress a moan as fire tore down his arm, leaving the awkward sensation of pins and needles in its place.

Then the hands were gone. He heard footsteps, couldn't tell in what direction they were headed, close or far, it didn't matter.

He'd completed the mission, made it to the extraction point. His shoulder set and New York many, many miles away, Steve relaxed into the extremely soft seat, unconscious before his head hit the headrest.


There was a soft hand on his uninjured shoulder.

No, Steve groaned. They weren't in Brooklyn already! The plane had just taken off.

"Captain Rogers….sir," the voice continued, relentless yet gentle. "We're here."

With great effort, Steve cracked open one eye to see the pilot crouching next to him, his face creased with concern.

"Oh good," the young man breathed. "I was getting worried when you didn't wake up."

Steve just nodded, his eyes closing into slits. He shifted in his seat for a moment, trying to figure out the least painful way to stand up. Finally, he gripped the armrests tightly, inhaled deeply and gathered his remaining strength.

"Here," the pilot, who magically appeared on his left, leaned down and wrapped his one arm around the soldier's upper chest, sliding Steve's shoulder over his own. "Let me help you."

"Uh huh," was all Steve could manage.

It took a monumental effort from both of them to get the super soldier upright. While the kid held him steady, Rogers gripped the seatback, his knuckles ghostly white, until the room stopped shaking.

He took one step forward and felt his knees give slightly. His arms flailed wildly, trying to grab anything to keep himself from falling. One arm smacked into flesh and, suddenly, there were arms around him again, holding him steady. The pilot tightened his grip and led Steve to the small arched doorway.

Even in his semi-conscious state, Steve knew there was no way the two of them could fit through that tiny arch at the same time so he slid out from pilot's grasp, clinging tightly to the handrails. Once he was out of the shadow of the jet, the wind picked up, driving tendrils of ice into his abused system and causing him to sway languidly on the metal staircase. The strength of the gust caused his ribs to ache with a renewed vigor and he was forced to sacrifice half of his grip on the railing in order to support his torso.

Maintaining his balance with just one hand, he squinted at the metal stairs and carefully lowered himself from step to step until he was back on the cement ground. He continued focusing on the ground until he was safely propped against the staircase, at which point, he allowed himself to take stock of his surroundings. He stared over the small railing and was stunned by the breathtaking view of New York City. He knew of only one place with a view this magnificent, meaning he was currently standing on the roof of Stark Tower (or Avengers' Tower. The name changed depending on to whom you spoke).

Without taking his eyes off the city skyline, he heard the kid lightly bound down the stairs and take his place by Steve's side once again. "To the elevator?" he asked.

"Mister Jones!" a voice boomed from inside the plane.

Jones' face soured. He glanced back into the cabin before fixing Steve with a second look of great concern.

"I…"

Steve understood. No need for the kid to get fired on his behalf. He slipped out of the kid's grip, forcing himself to stand upright.

"G'on. I got'his."

The kid's eyebrows furrowed. "I can't. You need help."

"JONES!" the voice called again, this time more insistent.

Steve tilted his head to the right. "G'on, kid."

The pilot was still hesitant. "I'm so sorry Captain Rogers."

"'ll be fine," Steve managed, releasing his grip on the ramp's handrail and wavering slightly.

The kid shot him one last look, expressing his displeasure at having to leave, but he obediently hopped into the plane and pulled up the ramp.

"It was a pleasure working with you, Captain!" he called from the cockpit as he prepared for departure.

Steve watched the plane take off before fixing his gaze on the elevators in the middle of the expansive roof. Being left at Stark Tower wasn't ideal since he would rather sleep off his injuries at his own apartment in Brooklyn before being reunited with the rest of the Avengers.

Right now, though, it was his only option.

He inhaled, gathering his remaining strength, and headed off. Though he easily fell back into his step-hop, step-skip routine, his short nap on the plane appeared to have exhausted him more than it had rejuvenated him. Steve had never been more grateful Tony had given the entire team access to his tower—for emergencies, he had said. But the Avengers had read between the lines: they knew they were welcome anytime.

Regardless, if Stark was going to split hairs over the matter, he was sure this qualified.

He wobbled up to the steel doors and palmed the touch screen located beside them. Scanners ran up and down his hand, reading for heat signature and comparing his fingerprints. After a long moment, the screen flashed green and the doors he had been leaning against opened, nearly dumping him on the shiny metal floor.

He lurched forward and crashed into the far wall, locating the grab bar and barely managing to hold himself upright. The captain gauged the distance from his current location to the door, all the while knowing it was too far. Leaning heavily against the wall, he tilted his head upwards.

"JARV'S?" he slurred.

"Yes, Captain Rogers?" He twitched slightly as the loud British tone resonated through the small elevator. Though he had been expecting it, he still wasn't comfortable with the AI's omnipotence and was continually surprised with the speed at which it responded. At the moment though, he knew using JARVIS was the only way to get to an unoccupied floor.

"Thirty-four…pl'se." An empty floor with a guest room, Steve recalled from one of his first visits.

"As you wish." Gears whirred and the car began its descent.

"If I may ask, sir, are you well?"

Steve flicked his hand in an attempt to wave away the AI. "Jus' need…some sleep…"

With a chirp, the elevator slowed to a stop and the doors slid open. "Floor 34 sir. Should I alert the others to your arrival?"

"No!" Steve shouted, doubling over in agony as his ribcage contracted painfully with the force of his exclamation.

"Sir, I believe you require medical attention."

"I n'd sleep." Still hunched over, he stumbled toward the opening doors.

There was a beat of silence. "If you believe that is best, Captain Rogers."

Steve didn't bother to respond.

He made it into the bed seconds before his knees gave out. He lay there, breathing hard, too exhausted to pull off his dirty, bloody uniform. Guilt twinged in his belly for a split second, knowing Tony Stark didn't buy anything inexpensive, but the overwhelming need to sleep was too overpowering. He'd buy a new set of sheets for the inventor when he woke up.

His head landed on the incredibly soft pillow and he almost allowed himself to drift off to sleep. At the last second, he snapped back to awareness, knowing there was one matter he had yet to take care of. "JARV'S?"

"Yes, Captain?"

"'m not here." If anyone in the Tower knew he had returned, he wouldn't be allowed to rest without first being dragged to SHIELD's on-call physicians. By the time a proper evaluation was completed, most of his wounds would already be healed, making the trip completely unnecessary. He had been in the field long enough to know when one of his injuries required serious medical attention. With the exception of his shoulder which had already been reduced, he had attained only superficial injuries and he was sure those would be completely gone by morning.

The AI sighed. "Yes, Captain," he replied, reluctantly as Steve allowed sleep to claim him.

Though Captain Rogers had initially been confused by the AI, he had come to use its vast knowledge on occasion. He was always polite and didn't threaten to turn JARVIS into a toaster. Plus, JARVIS knew that, beneath the rough outer exterior of Master Stark, there was a soft spot for the Captain, along with the other Avengers.

The young soldier may have refused help from his colleagues, but JARVIS made it his mission to monitor the room with greater attention than usual, ensuring Captain Rogers made it through the night.


In an undisclosed location

Footage was scrolling by on the four computer screens, displaying traffic cams, internal video screens and home security systems. The time stamp rolled in the bottom corners of all the feeds, the seconds changing to minutes in unison. A young man sat in front of the wall of monitors, his eyes flashing back and forth between the screens as his fingers raced over a keyboard.

"Tell me you have something," a soft voice whispered over his shoulder.

The man couldn't stifle the shiver that ran down his spine at the unwelcome breath against the nape of his neck.

"I…erhm, I do?" he stammered.

"You either do or you don't. There should not be a question."

"We might have something," he pointed to the upper left screen, where pixels were being sharpened and magnified one-by-one. "As soon as my program finishes, we may be able to get a full face."

"Gooood," the man crooned, melting into the dark hallway without another word.

The man released the pent-up full-body shudder. He continued to stare at the screens, scouring each one for a glimpse of the man who had robbed them of their most valuable possession.

Hearing a shrill beep, the man glanced up at the top screen as the final pixels sharpened and fell into a remarkably clear image.

"Sir," he yelled, knowing his leader was still close to the door. He hit print and the machine spat out a glossy 8x10.

Long, knobby fingers snatched the picture out of his hands before he had a chance to look at the rendered image himself.

"This," the leader spat, flipping the picture around, revealing a blond man in a dark blue bodysuit, his left hand clamped onto his right elbow, his head tilted slightly as he turned to look over his shoulder. And did he detect panic on the thief's face? "is the man?"

The frightened computer technician barely managed to stammer, "Y-y-y-yes, sir."

"Goooood." The leader reached out and squeezed the tech's shoulder in a gesture that was meant to be reassuring, but sent another round of shivers down the tech's back. Grinning evilly, he patted his employee's shoulder one last time before dropping the photo into the tech's lap.

"Now," he whispered, his face just inches from the tech's ear, "find out who he is."


Thanks for reading. I'd love to hear what you thought!