The Avengers hovered over Steve's bed. At least, most of the Avengers did. Tony and the Iron Man suit were noticeably missing from the hospital room. The other four, however, were huddled together—wet and bloody and clearly post-mission, but beaming to see Steve awake. Bruce stood in the corner, a hospital blanket wrapped around him because the Hulk had ripped off his clothes. Natasha, sporting a black eye and a bloody lip was closest to Steve's bed, treating him to one of her rare, kind smiles. Thor was snacking nervously on a pop-tart and standing like a guard dog by Steve's side. And Clint, well—Clint was narrating the entire situation, as all Steve could see was an empty expanse of pure, uninterrupted darkness.

"Ouh! Oh, Natasha just hit me," Clint said. "Ouch! She hit me again."

Clint's voice grew further away while Natasha's came closer. "The doctors said it should be temporary, Steve," she said. "Whatever we were dealing with out there, they had some sort of lazors for eyes, and unfortunately, you made contact. They're working on finding something to fix this."

"These foul creatures are not from Asgard, but I will scour the nine realms to find its origins and cure your ailment," boomed Thor's pop-tart ridden voice; though Steve could not visually place him in the room, he imagined he must have been nearby because his voice was nearly deafening. Somehow, Steve found this endlessly comforting.

"Tony and I will work on it too," Bruce assured him.

Steve nodded. Silence fell within the room. He knew what his friends must be thinking—that he was scared, lost, and confused, that he would need time to adjust, to mull the word 'blind' over in his mind and come to terms with its endless consequences. Maybe he did. Maybe it would come like a thief in the night and catch him off guard—a few minutes from now, a few hours, a few days. (It would be fitting, wouldn't it, for reality to sneak up on him, as he'd never see life coming again, would he? Never again would he be able to predict the world in front of him.)

Perhaps he'd be sitting at the kitchen table back at the tower and he'd reached for the butter only to find it wasn't where it normally was, and then it would hit him; he was blind, and he couldn't see the butter, and he couldn't see his friends, and the rest of his life would be nothing but a series of repeated memories constantly fluttering through his darkened mind.

But right then, sitting in a stuffy hospital gown in a quiet hospital room, there was nothing. And not just the nothing of his sight (or lack thereof). There was no fear, no worry, no crippling panic or existential crisis. If there was anything Steve had learned in the last year or so of his life it was that nothing was ever what it seemed. For twenty-six years, he'd lived with disabilities—asthma, anemia, pneumonia, scoliosis, you name it. And then one afternoon, he'd stepped out of a lab, two feet taller, bursting with muscles and an immune system that could rival any disease known to man. For months, he'd fought Nazis and the Red Skull in 1940's World War II, and then he woke up in the twenty-first century with a cellphone in his pocket and aliens on the street.

Life, Steve knew, was unpredictable, and if anyone was capable of handling it, it was the group of bleeding, bruised individuals in front of him.

Steve had made friends with a god of epic proportions—a looming, caped, flying force of thunder that made no false promises when he said he'd search the entire universe to help him. Then there were the two trained-assassins, endlessly loyal and unbelievably skilled, who would, with or without Steve's permission, conquer the world if it meant they could cure his current "predicament." And there was Bruce and Tony; two of the best minds the world had ever known—scientists extraordinaire, geniuses in their own like who complemented each other flawlessly: an engineer and a biologist. If Thor, Clint, Natasha, Bruce, and Tony couldn't fix him, well, then maybe Steve would start worrying.

Right now, it was just sort of annoying.

He was discharged within the hour. With Natasha supporting him on his left, Clint on his right, and Bruce and Thor trailing behind discouraging"bothersome" fans and reporters, Steve made it out to the cab and back to the tower in one piece. Well, more like several pieces because while his heart and lungs and limbs all worked fine, he'd bump into the wall without his friends' help. So they moved like one large walking talking jigsaw puzzle with Steve at the center.

It was frustrating at best and humiliating at worst.

Tony was already there when they arrived, the group of them clambering through the elevator doors and dropping Steve as carefully as they could onto the couch. He fell, slumping back into the comfortable (expensive, Tony-approved) fabric, when he heard the man's voice from the stairs. "Fucking hell, about time, what-hey Cap," the sound of his footsteps came to a sudden holt, there were as an exchange of several hushed whispers, and then Tony cleared his throat. "So we'll work on that," he concluded simply.

Steve laughed. "Thanks Tony." He reclined back into the couch as far as the fabric would let him, allowing the pain of the day—the stress—drain out of him. Strange that when the day's events were added up—all the pain, all the fighting, the loss of his sight—and the one though that had plagued his mind through it all was, "well, I sure hope Tony is okay." He wasn't disappointed—he wasn't; Tony was safe and, from the sound of it, uninjured, and Steve wouldn't trade that for the world—but he'd just sort of thought that if Tony wasn't at the hospital with the rest, it was for a reason.

Sure, Tony and Steve had had a rough start. Perhaps it had taken them longer to bond than they had with the rest of the team. But Tony was, well, Tony, and Steve loved his team to death—each one of them individually and in their own ways—but Tony was different. How it happened, Steve still wasn't sure, but somewhere along the line—between movie nights and saving the world—Tony had become his best friend, and it was this relationship more than anything that had kept Steve sane through his cross-century transition.

Tony was brash and sarcastic, and he'd done an excellent job of fooling them all—Steve more than anyone—but with that nuke on his back, zooming toward the wormhole without a second's hesitation, his facade had fallen. Tony was a hero, and Steve would never doubt it again.

Since that monumental day—the day they'd all been forced to come together as a team, chaotic and uncoordinated, but miraculously successful—a lot had changed. They still argued, all six of them at each other's throats at a moment's notice, but they'd also found ways to solve it. Movies to distract when the fight was unsolvable, food and tea to calm when the time came to sit and work out their differences. They all worked differently, yes, but they all fit together.

Clint fit into the spaces in the ceiling, on the arms of the couches and the tops of counters. Natasha seeped into the shadows, pressed into the spots between them—feet in your lap, and head on your shoulder, barking laughter coming when you least expected it. Thor took up every doorway, whole sofas to himself and a carton of eggs per morning, bright smiles and cautious eyes and a guilt for his brother's actions that never quite left his strong frame. Bruce existed in the places in between, taking up no room at all until it took up everything, quite until he was screaming, careful until he was smashing.

And then there was Tony. Tony who was loud and brash and too much in all the right ways. He was showy and extravagant, too easy with his wallet but endlessly charitable in the process. He gave them all a home. Steve's room was just old fashioned enough to keep him comfortable but modern enough to introduce him to the new century. Bruce's room was spare and peaceful, made for meditation, for an escape, a place he could chase away the anger. Clint's room as high as could be and had its own fridge and an amazing view. Natasha's was equipped for death but also music and ballet and the beautiful things of the world that no one took the time to realize she might love. Thor's was filled with tools, computers and cameras to talk to Jane, equipment to look at the stars and think of home, machines to teach him of earth and of food and of history and whatever else the god might want to know about while so far away from his homeland.

Tony was rude and sarcastic and he wouldn't say he loved them, wouldn't say he needed them, but he showed it in every smile and every time he chose to spend movie night with them over a night in the lab.

Tony cared—Steve was sure of this. Tony truly, honestly cared, and still he hadn't showed up. Six spots around Steve's hospital bed, and only five were filled. And that was fine. Steve could take care of himself, and even if he couldn't, five friends was more than enough to make do. Steve—already aching at the thought that he'd never again see Tony's face—was not at all disappointed, wasn't longing or sulking. He was simply curious, lightly concerned, briefly wondering about Tony's absence, and that was all. (And as long as he kept telling himself that, things would be fine.)

He was Captain America, and if the world was going to throw that pressure on his shoulders, he sure as hell better support it. Thanks to the serum, his shoulders were broad, and could take it.

Until now.

"Steve, if you need anything, don't hesitate to ask," said Natasha.

"Are you in need of sustenance, friend?" asked Thor.

Bruce sat down on Steve's left. "Anything to drink?"

Clint took up position on his right. "Help to your room?"

Steve massaged his temples and reminded himself once again that his friends were only trying to help. He was lucky to have friends that were so concerned, blessed to have any attention at all from a group of people with so many more pressing matters taking up their time. What purpose did a god, two world-class spies, and a couple of geniuses have wasting their breath fussing over him? This sort of catering was a privilege, an honor even. So why did he feel so frustrated?

"Uh, I could use some water," he said. Now that he thought about it, his throat was rather dry. His back was also aching and his shoulder was throbbing where the creature had bore its claws into his flesh, but those were all secondary matters; he had the serum, and they would heal. His blindness was a far more pressing matter, and there was no reason to bother his team with the rest.

"Tony's already in the kitchen," Bruce replied. "Tony! Could you grab Steve a bottle of water?"

"He knows where they are," came Tony's voice from several feet away. "Ten steps to the left, four to the right, five left again, and they're on the top shelf."

Steve thought he could actually hear Bruce rolling his eyes. "I'll get it," he mumbled. The sudden lack of pressure beside him told Steve that the other man had stood up. He reached out and grabbed Bruce's arm, gently bringing the scientists' movements to a holt.

"I've got it," he said. "I can do it."

Using the couch as a source of balance, Steve felt his way to his feet. Ten steps to the left. He counted in his head—one, two, three—until he'd reached the end then turned to right—one, two, three, four. He pivoted again and took five more steps, reaching out his hand and…he touched the metal of the fridge. Something burst inside his chest like it was his birthday and Christmas morning all combined (at least, the way he'd imagined those holidays, where there was presents and family, and not a depression and poverty). Grinning, he pulled open the fridge, fingered his way to the top shelf until he felt the cool plastic of a water bottle, and picked one up.

When he took a sip, he noticed that the water tasted better than it ever had before, and not because Tony had upgraded them to an even more expensive brand than he was already buying. It was silly, he knew, to be so happy over a little detail. He'd only walked nineteen steps, and it wasn't as though his legs were broken. But there was something redeeming about walking in the darkness and making it to the other side—his steps were his and his alone, no help or crutches by his side.

Well, he always had been stubborn.

"See," Tony said from somewhere to his left. "I told you he could do it."