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Rebirth
By: Syntyche and Bookdancer
Chapter Two
Steve jammed his hands into the pockets of his worn leather jacket to ward off the bite in the air. For a late summer's evening, there was a hint of Fall in the crisp air … or maybe he was the only one who thought so: he seemed to have picked up an ever-present chill since being thawed out, and no amount of layering jackets over sweaters over t-shirts seemed to fully take it away.
The Carson Carnival of Traveling Wonders was almost recognizable to the troubled soldier: the brightly colored blinking bulbs; the happy, chattering crowd snacking on greasy food they'd regret consuming come tomorrow as they pushed past him to gawk at the next shiny thing to grab their easily-caught attention; the ear-wrenching screech of metal rides long past their recommended maintenance.
If Steve didn't know so differently and utterly, he might have even been to lose himself, just for awhile, to the comforting familiarity; it was at a fair similar to this where he'd first met Doctor Erskine and his life had irrevocably changed when the dream he'd been clinging to for so long had finally begun to come true.
Steve snorted. Yes, his life had become a fairy tale. If only he could remember the story where the sleeping prince was awoken to wander around in hopeless confusion as he tried to uncover a purpose for his new life.
The soldier knew he was wasting his time - ironic - longing for the past, but even here there were enough discrepancies, just enough reminders that this wasn't his place, or his era, and not for the first time - the first time tonight, even - Captain America was lost, lonely, and out-of-touch; a relic, as dated as one of the old cars Agent Fury had given him a flyer for. Steve had good reason for feeling this way, of course: he'd been asleep for forty-five years, frozen and forgotten for nearly half a century while the time stream he'd unwittingly drifted out had flowed on, unimpeded by the loss of one unnoticed laboratory experiment. For the man who had been sleeping, it was a long time to miss, and Steve felt the lost years sharply.
But the young man wandering the main thoroughfare this chilly evening didn't want to think about what he'd lost tonight, he wanted to focus on one night where he could be normal. The lonely soldier ambled aimlessly through the excited crowd, mutely ignoring taunting calls to try games Steve knew were rigged but could probably still win, and he winced as he passed a trio of giggling young women who brushed a little too close for the soldier's comfort as they smiled at him coyly. Steve offered them a polite nod while courteously trying to ignore their horrifically bright makeup that so distracted from the natural beauty Steve appreciated, and the garish amount of padding in the shoulders of their blouses that make them look like football linebackers.
Steve felt his ears turning red from something other than cold as a rather lewd comment reached him, once that he probably wasn't meant to hear. Steve burrowed even deeper into his jacket to hide the blush that crawled insistently across his strong cheekbones, and absently fell in line with those steadily meandering their way to the big top tent where the main attractions were performing.
Inside the enormous tent, the smell of musty sawdust and large animals in close quarters was almost overpowering, and the packed-in crowd made Steve unconsciously edgy, but the soldier was determined to be normal tonight, so he found a seat on a hard wooden bench near the middle of the audience and willed himself to relax and enjoy the show. As the first act unfolded - trapeze artists who caught Steve's enraptured gaze and easily made him forget the crowd and the smells as he watched their amazing acrobatics and dutifully applauded after each trick - Steve slowly allowed himself to relax and just appreciate the cheerful sights and sounds playing out before him. He quietly admitted to himself that Fury might have been right about him needing time off: for just a short while as he cheered on the parade of breathtaking stunts and tricks, the relentless and exhausted supersoldier was replaced by a gawky kid with dreams too grand for his scrawny body who could only wish for the chance to be a part of something bigger.
For the next hour Steve gasped at the acrobats, encouraged the daring lion tamer, and chuckled nervously at the clowns, secretly relieved when that particular act was over.
And for a little while, Steve felt normal.
He found himself intrigued when the red-coated ringmaster re-entered the center ring: Mister Carson himself, a gaunt, whip-thin man with a loudly boisterous manner that belied his slight appearance, dramatically announced the next performance: "the most dangerous act in the land: the Swordsman, a duelist without parallel!" Steve leaned forward expectantly on the hard bench, enraptured by the enticing promise skill about to be displayed.
He wasn't disappointed.
The Swordsman strode arrogantly into the ring. His purple-cowled, sleeveless costume fit him like a second skin and couldn't hide his tall, broad-shouldered physique; his swords were slung confidently over his shoulders and he had the air of a genuine swashbuckler, the solid sureness of a man who knew exactly how every second, every single nuance of his act was about to fall into perfect place.
Steve watched raptly with unconscious slack-jawed attention as the Swordsman elicited oohs and aahs from the cheering, excited crowd as he executed every move with grace and flair. The duelist spun and whirled, his blades flashing in the bright house lights as they sliced into thick wooden targets without resistance, a deadly dance of precision and skill melded into a heart-stopping routine as the Swordsman's sequin-costumed assistants were brought out and his blades flashed incredibly close to their skin or easily decimated targets perched upon their outstretched fingers. The Swordsman was also joined by a fellow performer, a marksman with the moniker of Trick Shot, and the act swiftly turned into a dual display of amazing talent as each tried to outdo the other, the targets getting harder and more impossible to reach, the blades and arrows coming ever closer to the hapless but staunch assistants.
Steve's attention was arrested by Trick Shot the moment the archer stepped into the ring and he watched raptly as the marksman fired off multiple arrows simultaneously into bullseye targets at the far end of the ring. The archer's demonstration of distance and skill shots, performed with no apparent trouble at all, had Steve suddenly thinking he needed more time off for hobbies:
All of the sudden, Steve wanted to be an archer.
He sat in the big top long after the performances had ended for the night, mulling over what he had seen, leaving only when the cleanup crew started to shuffle in and gave him the evil eye for still hanging around. Steve left the carnival feeling more at ease and happier than he had in a long time, and he briefly wondered if Captain America was too old to run away and join the circus.
The next night Steve came back to the carnival, a giddy sense of anticipation lodged in his chest as he arrived early to choose a seat even closer to the front than before. The soldier wanted to put his enhanced eyesight to good use and see what tips and tricks he could pick up, and he waited impatiently for the Swordsman and Trick Shot to appear. Once they took the ring Steve watched the act like a hawk, again utterly captivated by the flawless grace and speed displayed. There were even variances on tonight's act - the Saturday night crowd being even bigger than last night's considerable audience - reeling Steve in further and the solider found he was nearly standing by the end of the act, his fists balled together in barely-contained excitement.
The dual act ended to thunderous applause and the ringmaster returned, urging the crowd to cheer even louder for the duelist and the marksman and they happily obliged; Steve cheered and clapped until he was breathless, caught up in childlike excitement, and when the following act took the stage Steve found he was somewhat less interested in the rest of the performances to follow so he carefully slipped out of the big top to breathe less cloistered air. He meandered for a bit through lesser attractions and played a few games - he'd been right, he won them all - and was disturbed to see that one of the funhouse mirrors made him look exactly as he had before being altered by Erskine's supersoldier serum: all ears and limbs.
The skies grew dark with approaching night and Steve felt the familiar chill bringing out gooseflesh on his skin. He wondered if others were cold tonight, if he would always be cold. He tucked his fingers under his armpits, trying to warm them in the stiff leather. Eventually he noticed the crowd beginning to thin, and soon there were only a few wanderers loitering on the litter-covered grounds, scuffling through lazily discarded food wrappers and half-spilt sodas as they scurried past the soldier toward the exits; apparently it had gotten later than Steve had thought while he'd been sadly ogling the unsettling image of his past self in the funhouse.
Steve too started for the exits but gave a longing glance back toward the big top. The huge tent was mostly dark and Steve was inexplicably disheartened; after watching the marksman's show a second time, Steve was convinced he wanted to take up archery, and the idea of asking Trick Shot for a few pointers for beginners had quietly occurred to him.
His feet were taking him back to the big top before his mind was fully aware of it, but perhaps the opportunity to locate the archer was still possible. Steve carefully pushed back the heavy tent flaps, dropped down now to obscure visitors while the carnival workers began packing up for the night; the soldier almost immediately back away in disappointment when he realized his slim hope was not to be realized: Trick Shot was nowhere to be seen, just a few maintenance workers cleaning up tiredly after the animals and the now-dispersed crowd, and the Swordsman standing off-center in the main ring. The duelist gave a harsh shout of annoyance, disgust clearly written in his imperious tone, and Steve curiously followed the performer's glare and projection of his voice to the thin wire strung high across the tent where a boy of no more than thirteen or fourteen balanced carefully on the platform, a nocked arrow resting against his thin shoulder as he sighted cautiously at an almost impossible target on the ground below.
"Don't hesitate, boy!" the Swordsman shouted abruptly, irritation present in every nuance of his voice. "If you insist on practicing with that goddamn piece of shit toy, you'd damned well better make sure you're good at it!"
The duelist's infuriated bellows distracted the boy's concentration and Steve took an involuntary step forward, a muted gasp on his lips as the boy tottered at the edge of the platform unsteadily. The teenager hastily righted himself, however, and without further pause let the arrow fly. It hit the target solidly, barely off-center, and more arrows followed it rapidly, some closer to the red-painted bullseye, some a little farther away, but all of them striking the board until the last arrow was spent. Awed, Steve almost burst into appreciative applause but his focus was drawn from the target and the irate duelist to the boy as he carefully made his way down the long rope ladder, his movements choppy and awkward until he finally dismounted carefully, testing the weight he put on his right ankle before planting both feet on the ground. The young archer winced and limped off tensely toward the exit used by departing acts at the far end of the tent, not even glancing behind to see if his instructor followed.
As Steve waited hesitantly, still unsure if he had an opportunity to approach the duelist who could perhaps introduce him to Trick Shot, the Swordsman approached the boy, concern written throughout his haughty expression. Steve nodded quietly in satisfaction: despite his sharp words, it appeared the duelist did at least care for the boy and Steve was relieved: life in a traveling circus couldn't be easy, especially for a child.
Resigned to be a novice archer without any master advice, Steve was about to back out of the tent when his sharp eyes caught the harsh way the older man's hand closed tightly around the boy's upper arm as they brushed through the swinging tent flaps, and Steve's startled gaze saw the distinct look of fear that flashed across the teen's face and the ineffectual attempt to free himself from the much larger man's grasp.
Steve told himself firmly not to jump to conclusions, but he couldn't push from his mind the boy's frightened expression and tense, limping gait. The soldier quickly made his way to the exit the pair had disappeared through; they knew the grounds far better than the soldier and had vanished by the time he reached the outside, but Steve knew they couldn't have gotten far. He noted where the cluster of smaller tents and trailers was set up as living arrangements for the performers and other workers, and hastily scoured the area searching for the duelist and his charge. Steve almost took a lobbed high heel to his furiously blushing face when he stumbled into a tent that was clearly not the one he was looking for, and he hastily mumbled embarrassed apologies to the enraged couple as he backed away quickly, hands raised in a placating gesture.
Eventually Steve found the pair behind a trailer spattered with bright posters that proudly heralded the fantastic Swordsman. The solider reasoned to himself that he just wanted to ensure the boy was okay, but the second he laid eyes on them he could see that the young archer was clearly not okay.
The Swordsman had a clenched fist raised to deliver a punishing blow to the teenager already curled and trembling on the hard, dirty ground. A scathing denunciation on the duelist's lips turned into a startled curse as he found his wrist caught in a viselike grip and the large man stumbled, off-balance and awkward as his arm was yanked behind his back and he suddenly found himself facing furious blue eyes glaring from a face carved in stone.
"What do you think you're doing?" Steve demanded fiercely, and without waiting for a stuttered answer the soldier refocused his piercing gaze on the teenager now climbing unsteadily to his feet, keeping a wary distance between himself and his companion. "Are you all right, son?" Steve questioned gently, and he wished he could think of a better way to phrase the clearly inaccurate question.
The boy nodded tightly, his dirty blonde hair spilling into his blue eyes. "Yeah, fine," he muttered as he wiped the back of his hand across the blood dribbling from his split lip, leaving a trail of red smeared down his pale cheek. He darted a nervous glance toward the Swordsman, but there was a spark of defiance in them as well, as if he were daring the bigger man to take another swing at him while his unexpected savior was here.
The Swordsman finally seemed to have gotten over his shock, and he tried unsuccessfully to extricate himself from Steve's grasp with a vicious yank of his brawny arm. "This is not your concern," he growled at Steve, nearly hanging from Steve's powerful grip as the irritated soldier lifted the other man nearly to the tips of his toes to lessen his struggles, and even the boy gave him a look that was unreadable but not exactly grateful.
"Is this your child?" Steve asked pointedly, glaring at the burly duelist. "Are you responsible for this boy?"
"Hell, no!" the boy snorted sardonically, but at Steve's arched eyebrow he added, "… mister," in a hesitant grumble. Steve didn't approve of the clearly anti-authority undertone in the teen's voice, but he let it slide. He settled the Swordsman back on the ground but didn't release him and the duelist added darkly,
"The boy is my apprentice, but not my responsibility."
"Who takes care of you, then?" the soldier directed at the boy.
"No one," was the defiant reply as the kid grew more irritated, more anxious. "I take care of myself."
"Where are your parents?" Steve pressed, and was rewarded with a sullen and succinct,
"Dead."
Steve found himself at a loss. He had no experience with children - he was barely beyond one himself; only the horror of war and the grit ingrained in him from sacrificing to serve his beloved country had hardened him into a man beyond his years. Yet the soldier was not unaware of what he'd unwittingly interrupted, of the angry red weal crossing the boy's cheek, and he guessed uneasily that this wasn't the first time the man had struck the teen, nor would it be the last unless something changed, and Steve couldn't - wouldn't - allow that to happen when he could prevent it.
Steve gave the Swordsman a final dark look as he released him; the duelist had gone quiet and tense, fearful like all bullies when they actually encounter someone bigger than them - and Steve had no small experience with bullies.
"Don't touch him again," he warned, and from anyone else it would have sounded like an idle threat, but Steve didn't make idle threats and the duelist paled even as he struggled to regain some small part of his haughty dignity.
Steve turned to the teen, palm open, fingers spread wide. "Come with me, son," he said firmly, no room for disagreement. The teen ignored his outstretched hand but fell in beside him obediently, though Steve didn't fail to notice the worried glance the boy sent the glaring Swordsman, nor the careful distance he maintained just out of Steve's arm's reach. Steve set a careful pace, mindful of the archer's unsteady limp.
"Where are you going?" the teen asked quietly, head low but eyes defiant, and there might have been a flash of apprehensive fear that snaked across his pensive expression but it was gone before Steve could fully register it.
"I intend to speak with the ringmaster," Steve answered honestly. "The owner of this circus."
The teen stopped suddenly, sneakers scuffing to a halt in the dirt. "Mister Carson?" he asked in surprise. "Why?"
Steve leveled what he hoped what a reassuring look at the boy. "The Swordsman is mistreating you, son - "
"Don't call me that," the boy interrupted rudely, again swiping too-long blonde hair from his eyes. "It's Clint," he added with a frown, clearly loathe to release even that much information yet apparently regarding it as the lesser of two annoyances.
"I can't allow you to be treated that way, Clint," Steve continued. He flexed his near-frozen fingers inside his jacket pockets, noticing that the teen didn't look cold at all, and added, "I intend to speak with Mister Carson about it."
Clint huffed a little laugh that dripped misery and cynicism. "What makes you think talking to him is gonna help?"
Steve frowned. "Isn't it?"
The teenager gave him a look that clearly asked if he'd been born yesterday. Born? No. Thawed out after a long nap? Yes.
"Only if by 'help' you mean 'make things worse.'" Clint moved close enough to pull on his sleeve with a thin hand, awkward and gangly. "Listen," he murmured plaintively, "it's not a big deal. You caught him at a bad time. We … " the archer looked wistful for a moment, "we're in this together, my brother and me. It's not bad. Trust me when I say that you talking to anyone is only gonna upset a lot of people. And we like it here."
It was the most Steve had heard from the teen, and he picked up a slight drawl in his voice he hadn't noticed before. The soldier wasn't completely convinced it was fine, but at this point the soldier wasn't certain what else to offer. And Agent Fury was forever on his case about trying to help every stray and little old lady that crossed his path. "Is there anything I can do for you?" he finally asked, and Clint looked at him shrewdly.
"Can you spare five bucks?" he asked cautiously. "The string on my bow needs replaced, it's getting worn and throwing my aim off." His bright eyes were earnest and Steve almost shook his head and offered a quick lesson in priorities to this boy who clearly didn't get much to eat, but when asked what he needed chose to repair his only treasure instead … but Steve thought this would grievously offend young Clint so instead he simply fished his wallet from his back pocket and rifled through the bills inside. "Here." He handed the teen a twenty. "Get something to eat, too." He replaced his wallet and held out a hand to the boy. "I'm Steve, by the way."
Clint's eyes widened at the gift and he impulsively threw his arms around Steve in a quick hug. "Thanks," he said quietly, then turned and disappeared into the shadows.
Steve jammed his hands back in his pockets, a little disconcerted by the whole encounter, but feeling marginally better about the world in general as he leaves the circus grounds thinking of Clint's grateful face and fierce hug.
It wasn't until he got back to his apartment that he realized his wallet was missing.
OoOoOoOoOo
