Author's Note: Made it! I made the update date! :) :) On the final day available, but I made it! Yes! *throws happiness glitter*.

Thank you guys so much for your support! I am beyond words with my gratitude (cheesy, yes, but the truth ;) ).

Disclaimer: I own not a whit, if I did, Pietro wouldn't be dead and Loki an Avenger by now.

Sorry for any grammar/spelling errors!

Onwards ho!


Chapter Three:

Captain America, despite the sizable disbelief otherwise, is a title; not a person.

Why is it so hard for people to remember that? He's not about to go shouting it from rooftops in his irritation, but that doesn't necessarily make it any less aggravating. He's long since stopped attempting to correct people, he's grown used to the fact that there is little to no distinction between himself and his alter ego. Doesn't make it any more pleasant, but it helps it be endurable.

Or at least it assists into being. This new fan with his hard stares and silence that he wants to feel with chatter may prove otherwise.

Steve will never cease to be in awe of how much the world transformed in less than a century, but the one thing he is assured on is that uncomfortable desk chairs are indeed something that is stagnant. His entire spine is stiff and going numb from hours perched on the chair, staring vaguely at the screens with an attempted long-standing focus that is starting to run out. He wants very little other than to stand up and pace the length of the room, perhaps the entire facility to stop the ache from growing worse. The last time he stood was about five hours ago, and the security detail that was with him then, Agent Warren had jerked up in alarm grabbing the nearest weapon from off a desk (the almighty empty cup) looking with all intents ready to battle to the death. Steve has refrained from shifting to much since then.

The intensity of the jumpiness in these men is intense, and one that Steve is quite surprised at. They deal with psychopaths all the time, what makes the difference from them? The Raft doesn't hold only one prisoner, how is it different from their normal? But Loki isn't archetype.

Steve wishes he'd brought a pencil, or a pen. There's not much to sketch in this small, cramped, uncomfortable security office, but it would be more to do than count the cracks in the wall and recall everything he can about the layout of his apartment. This boredom is excruciating to the point that it's nearly painful. Steve isn't someone who gets bored easily, he's content to sit and watch people for hours (ridiculously so, he used to do it before the serum when he was sick so often and staring that Bucky nicknamed it "people-watching"), but his patience is growing thin as his exhaustion increases.

It's been sometime since he slept properly (discounting his seventy year comatose) before the crash he was kept up by the outcomes of the war and now it is because of memories of it. He's bone-weary tired and beyond. He hasn't slept in about two (three?) days now. It's not pleasant. With the serum, he's fairly certain his body doesn't need as much sleep (a theory no one was ever willing to let him try), but that doesn't mean he doesn't want it. If he could just explain that to his mind, then sleeping would be much easier.

Steve releases a quiet sigh into the air and glances at the camera's again, checking to make sure nothing has changed since the last time he looked at it. Nothing has and this isn't surprising. The most strenuous thing that's happened since he was put on the security detail in the Raft nineteen hours and fourteen minutes ago was when a security officer traded another out, but brought coffee. Decaf, likely, with no sugar if the man's continuing grimaces are anything to go by. Just drinking it to keep himself awake by the sheer nastiness.

Agent Price, the man with him currently (according to his name tag), is staring again. He hasn't really stopped since he entered the room about an hour ago, but his piercing study has not let up for some time now. Agent Price has been attempting a lackadaisical attitude towards everything, but Steve can tell that he is inwardly dying to talk to him.

Steve is fairly certain that it won't be long now before he cracks.

It isn't exactly a goal of his to watch the man squirm, but there is little he can do about it without engaging in the conversation he doesn't want to have.

He's ready to start banging his head against the wall in frustration. He doesn't really want to pull up the Captain America persona right now, he'd rather just be a tired, exhausted, grumpy Steve Rogers, but he isn't sure if he's allowed to be at the moment. Captain America is supposed to be guarding, Steve Rogers is just the pessimistic tag along.

"I'm Jeffery Price, by the way," The sentence throws Steve back to the present and his focus snaps back into place. He lifts his head up towards the agent trying (and more then likely failing) to keep the slight surprise off his face. The man has been holding his tongue for so long Steve slightly feared he didn't have one. He saw the man's name on his badge dangling on the left side of his jacket so introductions aren't exactly a necessity.

"My name," Agent Price adds, almost awkwardly a second later as if that wasn't clear when Steve doesn't respond. Or do anything but blink at him.

"I, ah, saw." Steve says a second later, regaining control of his tongue and lifts a hand towards his own chest to point out the badge on the agent's. Agent Price's head flicks down towards the area, apparently to see what it is Steve is pointing at. He lifts his head a second later, eyes slightly wide as if amazed that Steve noticed. Yep, he's got eyes.

Agent Price stares at him expectantly and it takes Steve a second to realize what he's waiting for. His name. Right. It's common courtesy to offer your name in return for another's. "Steve Rogers," He says and lifts his fingers slightly in a wave.

But Agent Price knew that.

So does pretty much everyone on this base.

These introductions were useless.

Agent Price is practically buzzing with excitement, "Steve Rogers as in Captain America? The Captain America?"

Nope, the one down the street; he's just filling in as the proper one gets a corn dog.

Steve gives a slight nod in answer. Agent Price's expression lights up with happiness, "Wow, it is just such an honour to be in your presence, Sir," he says in a rush, "I've just—I learned all about what you did in school, way back in the day—and I just, I want to say thank you."

Steve's lips press together and he forces a breath between them, Agent Price would not be the first person to say so. "You're welcome." He answers, though the words are stiff on his tongue.

Agent Price taps his fingers against his knees and Steve mentally braces himself. "What was it like, back in the forties? Did you ever meet the President? Can you play any instruments? Were you scared when you faced Hydra? Did you think you were going to survive when you stepped into the plane? Was Red Skull intimidating? Did you ever—?"

Steve forces a deep breath through his nose and struggles to maintain a relaxed breathing pattern. He is fine, he is present, he is here. Steve digs his fingers into the arm rests of the chairs, he isn't going to slip into the memories right now even as much as his mind feels the need to.

Nope.

He's good, great even, breathing normally, easily, out in, out in, he's fine. He can hear Bucky's voice in his head quietly telling him to breathe deeper as his chest aches and he wants to do no more than curl on the floor in a tiny ball of misery. Out in, idiot, come on, don't die on me now.

Steve presses his lips together firmly and stills his hands to keep from running them through his hair in agitation. Agent Price is not shutting up, his stream of questions is unrelenting and dragging up memories he'd rather leave buried and rotting.

Far, far below the surface.

He's fine.

The war is over and has been for more than half a century.

A low thrum of vibration stills his racing thoughts and it takes him a moment to identify the source. His phone. It's nothing fancy, just a simple flip phone that S.H.I.E.L.D. gave him two weeks ago. He's been learning how to use it, slower than he wants, but he is making progress.

The buzz means an alert, did he miss a call, or text? Is there an email or something similar?

Steve pulls the phone out of his jacket's pocket, grateful that he'd brought a spare pair of clothing, and ignoring Agent Price flicks the phone open staring at the screen.

There's a text from a number he doesn't recognize reading: Meet me downstairs in the generator room. I need your assistance. —TS.

TS?

Who is TS?

Steve wracks his brain for a moment before the realization hits him a second later. Tony Stark. Oh. He's not the only member from the Avengers on the Raft? Tony is here. The thought is oddly relieving, though Steve has no idea why. They aren't exactly a team, they aren't like the Commandos, just a jumbled group of people who have been thrown together twice. They barely even know each other.

Still.

Relieved.

Steve glances up at Agent Price, talking to himself contentedly. Steve idly wonders if he's even aware that he (Steve) isn't responding to him or not before he opens the text message and replies with:

Where is it?

There's a brief pause of about twenty seconds before Tony replies: Elevator down the hall you're on, on the left, the entire basement is dedicated to the security/power maintenance, the giant thing in the middle: generator.

Steve stares at it for a second processing the words before pecking out a few more letters: Give me a few minutes.

Honestly, Loki has done very little since Steve got here, they'll be fine if he slips out for a few minutes; they survived an entire month. Steve knows he's just trying to find an excuse for the fact that he's just beyond thrilled to be escaping from this awkward, unpleasant one-sided conversation threatening to drag him in that he very much does not want to engage in.

Steve rises to his feet, his spine imminently lurching into protest (but it'll protest whether he sits on the chair or not) and stuffs the flip phone into his jacket pocket. Agent Price's incessant chatter stops abruptly and he lifts his head up towards him, inquiring eyebrow raised.

Steve's fingers point towards the door before his voice works properly, "I—" He clears his throat, "I am needed for something, somewhere else." He says. The way it comes out sounds more like a question and Steve mentally smacks his forehead.

That's specific.

He presses his lips together and gives a slight nod, "I'll be back soon."

Maybe.

He turns and crosses the distance to the door quickly as Agent Prince makes a slight sqwuaking noise behind him of surprise or protest. He pulls at the handle and pushes it open bursting into the hallway and closes the door with such speed "sprinting" would have been a better word choice.

Steve exhales quietly into the hall, grateful that it's empty, for once, and turns glancing down the halls. On the right leads towards a fork where the right has Loki's cell at the end and the left leads somewhere Steve doesn't actually know. The left of him is indeed an elevator and Steve moves towards it, and stares at the buttons for a second. It's like a foreign language has been presented to him and he only has minutes to learn it.

This has changed so much from the forties.

But that's good.

It's fine.

Totally excellent.

Steve stares at the buttons for another long moment before hesitatingly pressing the 3. This should bring it to him. Fingers crossed. He folds his hands across his chest, tapping them rhythmically across his arms in the lyrics of a song he heard a couple of days ago...somewhere, probably a grocery store, and the elevator gives a slight ping before the doors open and Steve steps inside. He reaches his hand out and presses the B1 and it glows almost cheerily at his choice. That is the basement/lowest level (this building has no foundation ergo: no basement), right? Hopefully. Steve is so out of place here.

He squeezes his fists shut and digs his nails into his palms as the elevator lurches downwards; even though it doesn't exactly travel at the speed of light, he isn't a fan of the sensation. The elevator comes to a halt and the doors drag open and Steve is relieved to see blinking equipment and hear the low thrum of electricity pumping.

This is indeed the generator room.

Steve takes several steps into the room, almost tentatively, searching for Tony. What does he need his help with anyway? Is there some heavy lifting or something? Steve was admittedly a little desperate to get away from Agent Price to the point he didn't care what Tony wanted him to do. Now that he's had a moment to breathe, he can think clearer. Does it really matter? Tony wants his assistance and nothing noteworthy is happening upstairs.

Steve takes several more steps into the room and his eyes flit across the it staring at everything. He has very little idea of what any of it does. He doesn't even know if the fact that most of it is flashing with a low level light is a good or a bad thing. Probably a bad thing.

"Tony?" Steve calls into the air hesitantly. He's not sure if he should text him to say he's present or not, Tony might be busy or have headphones on or—

"Oh good, you're here." Tony materializes out of seemingly nowhere behind a large desk stacked high with boxes and other junk shoving a box into his hands. Steve grunts slightly in surprise at it, his hands clasping it out of reflex and surprise more than anything else. Tony flashes him a smile that seems both too stretched to be sincere and completely genuine before waving a hand in a "follow" gesture. His hand is covered in a black substance, dirt or oil or something else, Steve isn't sure.

Whatever it is, it reminds Steve of when he paints because he gets (or used to, he hasn't painted since before Bucky's fall—stuffing that out of the thought processes) paint all over his hands and face and clothing. How remains a mystery, but it is consistent. Tony begins to walk off, ducking underneath a lower hanging power-circuit-thing that probably has an official name Steve doesn't know and he remains standing still for another second, dumbly, before he scampers after the multi-billionaire.

"Sorry, by the way," Tony looks back at him for half a second, "Fury decided that were going to pair up in teams of two about seven hours ago, but I had to fly back to New York to grab some stuff to repair this baby." Tony comes to a halt and pats a large rather ugly looking piece of equipment affectionately that Steve assumes is the generator.

Teams of two? Oh. That's...good. Then they can all suffer together, what's the saying? Ah! "Misery loves company".

"It's...fine," Steve assures, though his voice trails slightly, unintentally. He can't stop staring at everything in this room. The tech is amazing and he wants to run his hands on it and figure out how it works (but fail, drastically) or sketch it, and maybe just listen to it hum as he reads. The sound is oddly comforting. Bucky would have loved this.

Tony snatches a tool from the bucket Steve honestly forgot he was holding, the weight is so unnoticeable his mind stopped caring for it and it surprises him slightly. If Tony notices, he doesn't note it, instead he angles the wire clippers he's holding into a panel Steve hadn't realized was opened and gently pulls a thin yellow wire out.

The top edge of the rubber is burned slightly, but the wire itself seems to be in fairly good condition. Then again, Steve probably is the last person someone should come to asking if modern equipment is in good shape or not.

Tony grimaces slightly and Steve adjusts his hold on the box, filled with tools he's guessing originate from the multi-billionaire. "What?" Steve asks curiously leaning forward slightly to look at it. He doesn't see anything of significance.

Tony points towards the top of the yellow wire, "Do you see how these are uneven, cropped and blackened at the edges?"

"Yes." Steve answers.

"The wires burned beyond functioning; Loki overloaded the system with enough power to short circuit this entire generator." Tony explains, "Frankly, I'm impressed." He admits and grabs the yellow wire slowly tugging it out with such carefulness it could have been mistaken for a kitten.

Steve presses his lips together as Tony pulls the wire out completely before setting it on a smallish table to his left. There's another jumbled mess of broken parts and a clumped pile of wires and thicker cords all together in what looks like an impossible knot. Tony grabs another yellow wire from a neat pile lined next to each other in an even row, evenly spaced apart, these are new, the ones in the messy pile are not. Funny, Tony doesn't exactly strike Steve as a person who would be well organized.

Tony begins to stuff the wire down the panel then pauses looking back at him. "Can you hand me the…" he trails off for a second, obviously trying to figure out how to ask for something not by it's given name because Steve won't know it. Steve shoves frustration down as it spikes dangerously high and reminds himself that this isn't normal day stuff and if he's confused it's fine. Steve lifts up a random tool from within the box and Tony shakes his head, "It sort of looks like fingernail clippers." He says.

Oh.

Steve digs through the pile looking for the requested item. He shoves about half to one side, gaze restless. There! Buried slightly is a metal tool with longer handles, but a thin tip for gripping something, Steve guesses. He pulls the tool from the box and hands it to Tony who grasps it firmly before stuffing it between the thin space of the wires and the opening, his expression focused.

He has a pair of clearish glasses on his head (not on his nose) that are glowing slightly with small blue screens changing every so often. Tony doesn't really seem to notice them, which Steve finds slightly strange. He can't stand wearing glasses. He had terrible vision before the serum, but the glasses on his nose irritated him more than the awful vision did.

They begin to work in a companionable silence; Tony whizzes around the machine, flicking on levers, pulling out equipment and stuffing new ones in, if Steve asks about something Tony stops to explain it a slight amused expression on his face, but he doesn't get irritated or annoyed. Steve has only really seen the after-effects of Tony's moiling; the suit, Stark Tower, some bits of the Helicarrier, but watching him work is something close to hypnotizing. The man clearly knows what he's doing and the last time they were working together to fix the Helicarrier, Steve was a bit preoccupied to notice. And running high on emotion.

Especially in the lab.

He doesn't think he's ever going to understand fully why those words plopped out of his mouth the way they did or how they came out nasty. Steve can't stand arrogance, but he doesn't start fights. He doesn't back down when challenged, usually, but he's not the person to pick someone else apart just because.

Steve gnaws at the inside of his lip for a moment, worrying it between his teeth before releasing out a quiet breath, "Stark?" He asks, and Tony's head pops up to the side an inquisitive expression on his face. His expression clearly reads yes? so Steve doesn't bother waiting for him to verbally answer, "On the Helicarrier—with the um...I—" He starts awkwardly, but Tony apparently guesses what he was about to say and cuts him off.

"It's fine." He states, "The scepter was messing with all our heads."

"Right," Steve agrees, "But still, I'm sorry." He argues. There.

Tony huffs quietly. "Okay, apology accepted."

Good.

That's good.

"How do you plan on repairing Loki's cell?" Steve asks. He saw the shimmer of the broken glass from his position about twenty feet from it, the sparkle of it was intense. The shards were everywhere. If someone didn't have shoes on and walked across it, Steve doesn't think they would be able to find all the glass and pull it out.

Tony hums, "Oh. Um, Fury said he'd get Ross to move Loki out for a few hours as we repair; which means I've got to scrap together some lights and video surveillance that can withstand a direct lightning blast." Tony doesn't exactly sound happy about the fact.

"What do you think about this?" Steve asks curiously.

""This?"" Tony inquires.

"This situation, Loki's blindness, I guess." Steve answers.

Tony slams something back into place loudly and Steve jumps slightly. "I don't know," Tony answers, his voice is calm, so the slam wasn't from anger. "I haven't really thought about it."

Oh. Steve hasn't either. He wants to be sympathic towards the Asgardian's predicament, but he doesn't know if he can be. Loki didn't exactly go around New York offering free candy to all the little children. The destruction wasn't as terrible as it could have been, but that doesn't make it any better. But still, it was supposed to be imprisonment not lose-your-sight-along-the-way. It was war though, casualties are to be expected.

Like death.

Like Bucky.

Steve pushes the thought to the side into his think-about-never box, burying it deeply.

"It's weird," Tony says, dragging Steve back to the present, "I was expecting something more...violent. After New York and all."

"Me too." Steve admits, "He was…" He grapples for he correct word for a moment before settling on: "calmer."

"Calm isn't the word I'd use, myself," Tony says dryly and Steve winces. Okay, yes, Loki wasn't calm, but he wasn't as wild. Less like a feral animal that will attack at an approach; this blindness has affected him deeply.

Silence settles between the two of them, not uncomfortable or awkward it's just...quiet. Tony softly works on the generator as Steve hands him more tools. It's better than being lost in his thoughts as he stares blankly at a computer screen, so Steve isn't complaining.

The stretch lasts for somewhere around thirteen minutes the only break being when Tony asks for the fork in the box before the door to the sort-of-basement room is thrown open with a loud bang and General Ross's voice roars, "What on this blasted planet are you doing, Stark!?" into the room.

His voice echoes slightly and Steve cringes as his hearing amplifies it by a surplus.

Curse his enhanced hearing.

Why can everyone not whisper?

General Ross storms several feet further into the room managing to work around the equipment with ease that Steve did not have. He stares at Steve for a long second with a disbelieving stare before his eyes narrow slightly and he points a finger towards him.

"Where were you? You can't just wander off because you're bored on guard duty!"

He didn't wander off, he was asked to join something else. Something that seemed just a little bit more important than watching a man slowly drain disgusting coffee through a computer screen. Steve opens his mouth to answer, but no words form along his tongue. He isn't exactly sure what he can say anyway. He can't admit that that sitting in the office wasn't the most interesting thing ever and definitely helped his decision to help Tony quite a bit.

General Ross huffs and turns towards Tony. This is a man who quite clearly is used to being listened to at every whim, the moment someone steps out of line in his perfect little square box of "what is acceptable" he is unhappy, then yells.

Steve can't say he's the best at following his superiors anyway.

"What are you doing to my generator, Stark?" General Ross demands, pulling his attention away from Steve as Tony stabs the fork into the generator and the machine gives a slight hum of protest. Tony doesn't answer, and instead rips the fork out from where he used it to stab wires together spinning it slightly as he lifts his hand and Steve takes the tool from him, placing it back in the box that's been distributed onto the desk sometime in the last ten minutes.

"Why on earth are you taking it apart!?"

Tony flicks an eyebrow up and says, dryly: "Not taking it apart," as Steve protests, "he's fixing it, Sir." in an odd sync that sounds more like an overall unhappy assortment of sounds directed towards the general.

"Why?" General Ross demands sharply, "We had it under control."

"Clearly." Tony says, his voice filled with sarcasm, then flicks a hand out towards the desk where the pile of messy wires and pieces of the generator has grown in the last twenty-two plus minutes Steve has been down here. The wires are singed and battery bits are hanging in odd angles making a disastrous mess that is likely to never be untangled through any of their lifetimes. "That is what control looks like? I had to pull that out because your guys were doing utterly awful."

General Ross's mustache twitches slightly in his displeasure and his fists clench, "Why are you blessing us with community service, Stark, when no one asked you to?"

Tony lets out a huff of amusement at that and shoves a few round bottle-looking things up, "Director Fury asked me to." He sounds actually surprised that General Ross wasn't aware of this. Steve wasn't aware of this, he just assumed Tony wanted to keep the Raft in working order so the gaurding could end faster.

"And you just agreed from the goodness of your heart?" General Ross asks flatly.

Tony's expression flicks on irritated for a moment, but the flash is so quick Steve wonders if he imagined it. "No, I'm doing this because you have more than Loki in here and I don't have any desire to spend this weekend gathering supervillains up."

Ah. Fair point.

General Ross's jaw tenses and Steve finds his voice, "Sir," He says, addressing the general, "is this really necessary? You're still getting the generator fixed, but it's just quicker now."

Probably better working, too.

General Ross's gaze fixes on him, "You lot aren't supposed to be repairmen, you're supposed to be on gaurd duty."

With this said, and likely feeling his point has been made, General Ross spins on his heel and storms off muttering under his breath. Steve releases a sigh of frustration into the air trying to quell the guilt that's building in his stomach. Nothing happened well he wasn't there. It's fine. Tony needed his assistance so they can keep Loki in here better.

So why does it feel like he's done something wrong?

"Pleasant man." Steve mutters under his breath. He's not usually a person to distinctly not like people, but General Ross is, ah, quite a character to put it mildly.

Tony snorts, "You have no idea." He assures. Steve knows that the two have previously interacted together at least, but there seems to be something deeper going on here. People don't usually dislike each other as much as General Ross and Tony do on a second meeting.

Tony twists two threads of the wires together, then stares around the room for a moment. "Let there be light," he says and flicks a small switch towards the left of the generator and a low hum buzzes through it before the lights brighten intensely in the room and the hum grows deeper before there's a sparking fizz and the generator groans like it's been stabbed and the lights darken before giving a slight 'pop' as they die.

Steve stares at the lights vaguely and Tony lets out a curse under his breath before shoving back from the generator. "Yep, I'm going to have to replace the entire thing if Ross wants it to work for more than one afternoon. Whatever Loki did completely fried pretty much everything, this model is not the most up-to-date thing on the planet either. Almost as old as you." Tony jabs a finger in his direction and Steve rolls his eyes up towards the ceiling and lets them hang there for a moment in annoyance.

He's supposed to be in his nindies, not early twenties, yet here he is.

A loud buzz rings through the air and Steve lifts and inquiring eyebrow as Tony spins, eyes scanning over everything for something. "Where did I put the—ah ha!" His hand shoots out behind a piece of wire and pulls up a phone, touch screen and not any model Steve recognizes. Probably made via the multi-billionaire himself.

Tony flicks his gaze towards him, "Your ride's here."

"My ride?" Steve asks in confusion. What ride?

"Director Fury's having us stay in a S.H.I.E.L.D. base nearby until I can get Miss Moody," Tony points towards the generator with his thumb, "to work again. Bruce is here to trade you out, go get some sleep, Cap."

Sleep?

Sleep.

He wants sleep.

Steve blinks owlishly at Tony for a moment before remembering that he does, in fact, speak English. "I...thanks."

Tony shrugs, "Sure." He gives him a slight-but not rude-shove towards the the door to the room and Steve staggers a step before moving forwards towards it the promise of bed exiting him beyond what is probably healthy.


Author's note: I've started writing ahead in the story and have it sort of halfway planned through, so I'm going to aim for weekly updates from now on. Consistency is good. ;)

Until June-(it is, in fact, July. One of these days I will actually know what day it is) July 20th.