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That December, Tony Stark insisted on hosting S.H.I.E.L.D.'s annual Christmas party at the Stark Building. Steve arrived late, having spent the entire day struggling against the idea of spending the holiday alone. Even after he had been left an orphan, he hadn't been so alone – he had always had Bucky.
Finally, though, not content to feel sorry for himself, he had forced himself to shower, dress, and make an appearance. He had been greeted warmly enough by Tony and Pepper, who he had met once before at S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters.
It was along the edges of the room that he found Dr. Banner, who was just as interested in hiding as he was. Steve wouldn't know until later that Banner was a true kindred spirit – nearly as alone as he was – but for that night, at least, they made good companions.
As the evening wore on, Steve and Bruce (both teetotalers for their own reasons) watched the revelers around them grow increasingly loud and relaxed. Steve found his eyes drawn over and over to Anne, seeing her laugh with her colleagues, noticing for the first time the way her finger hooked around her lower lip when she was really listening to someone, but looking away when her gaze met his.
Hours later, from across the room, Steve saw Anne approach Natasha, her coat was on, a purse slung around her shoulders. Realizing that she was leaving, he felt something twist inside him at the knowledge that he hadn't spoken to her at all that night. He left Bruce, and made his way towards the two women, who seemed to be chatting amiably (or at least as amiably as Natasha ever chatted).
"Heading out?"
Anne looked up at him and nodded, "I've had enough of Tony Stark's liquor."
Up close, he could see that she was flushed and unsteady on her feet. He couldn't help smiling at the sight of her professional façade slipping.
Just as she reached out to shake Natasha's hand goodbye, an arm swung around her shoulders; a sandy-haired, red-faced young man pinched her against his chest, beaming down at her overzealously.
She winced. "Agent Pendrell."
Steve recognized him; he had hovered by her side all night.
"You're not leaving already, Annie?"
"I am."
Her voice was clipped. She looked at Natasha pitifully, but the redhead just smiled, content to watch the spectacle before her.
"I'll take you home, then. You, you," Pendrell pointed at her, his finger inches from her face, "have had far too much to drink."
Anne's eyes widened in horror at the suggestion. She opened her mouth to protest. Seeing her obvious discomfort, Steve felt his gorge rise. His hand landed on Pendrell's shoulder forcefully, making him jump.
"It just so happens I've already offered to walk Dr. Spring back to her apartment."
Natasha turned to look at him with one eyebrow raised. Pendrell blinked up at him in surprise, as if he hadn't noticed him until then. He pulled himself up to his full height, but still only came up to Steve's chin.
Pendrell released Anne, letting his arms fall to his sides. "Oh. I'm sorry, Captain, I didn't realize…"
Steve clapped him on the shoulder again, just slightly too hard to be truly friendly. "Nothing to be sorry about, Agent."
He nodded at Anne and gestured towards the door gallantly.
They walked to her Manhattan apartment in silence, only the sounds of traffic disturbing the chilly night air. It wasn't until they had nearly reached her building that she spoke.
"You didn't have to do that back there."
Steve stopped short and she stumbled and turned to look at him. His mouth was open, his expression open and surprised. "I wasn't –" he started, but couldn't find the end of the sentence.
"Just," she raised a hand, stopping him. Her words slurred slightly, "Just because you're some kind of superhero doesn't mean you have to do stuff like that all the time."
He looked at his feet, suddenly feeling painfully self-conscious.
"Okay."
"Thanks, though." She reached towards him, brushing his elbow and making him look up at her. The stood together quietly for a moment, Anne swayed slightly. Steve felt something rise between them, something thick and heavy, unspoken and tense.
Finally, Anne broke the silence, shifting nervously from foot to foot.
"Why didn't you find me tonight?"
He took a small, almost imperceptible step closer to her, closing the distance between them. She looked up at him seriously.
"You looked like you were having fun."
"So?"
He couldn't hold her gaze. He stuffed his hands in his pockets.
"I didn't want to –"
He shook his head, cutting himself off. Didn't want to what? His jaw clenched, he frowned at his shoes. He didn't want to infect her life with the same sadness, the loneliness and exhaustion and frustration that haunted him.
Later, he would tell himself that the next thing she did, she did because she had been drinking. But it was a self-deception that was easy to see through.
She closed the gap between them, wrapping her arms around his waist. Her head leaned against his chest. Without really knowing what he was doing, his hands left his pockets, coming to rest on her back.
He felt her sigh against him.
"You're going to be okay."
She looped her arm through his, leading him past her building. They walked through the city side by side, filling their lungs with icy air. It was early enough that Christmas tree vendors were still open. She confessed that she hadn't had a tree in years. They picked one out together and he carried it back to her apartment.
She didn't have decorations, but they made garlands out of popcorn and thread. After, Anne turned on a movie, something old and black and white with people who talked the way Steve remembered. When she fell asleep, her head was on his shoulder.
Even though he was alone, even though he had been thrust into a world and a time he didn't understand, and even though he knew the next fight was just around the corner, it wasn't a bad Christmas.
It was a chilly February morning when S.H.I.E.L.D.'s New York headquarters was attacked. Steve had been suited up, fighting computer-generated monsters on the building's subterranean training floor when a string of explosions rocked the room.
There were a series of shouts and commands in his earpiece, but he ignored them, racing to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s medical laboratories on the seventh floor. The disembodied voices in his ear told him that the building remained stable, but that unidentified enemy forces were entering.
He found Anne alone in the lab, crumpled on the floor, surrounded by broken glass. She eased herself onto her feet as he entered, gripping a counter to catch her balance. His hands gripped her arms to steady her.
"I'm okay," she pushed her hair away from her face, "I'm okay. What – "
She paused, the sight of him in uniform driving home the seriousness of the situation.
"Come on," he ordered.
He grabbed her by the arm, racing through the winding halls with her in tow until they reached her office.
As she ran inside, he told her to barricade the door behind him.
He had almost left when she grabbed his arm, forcing him to turn back to her.
"Be careful."
Her voice was strong, but her eyes were pleading. Steve swallowed, nodded, and left.
For an hour, Anne huddled in the dark corner of her office, sweating through her t-shirt, her hands clenched together. A series of booms rattled the walls, sending a framed photograph crashing to the floor. After a while, a long silence settled on the room. Crouched behind her file cabinet, her feet were asleep, her body ached.
A loud bang shook the door and sent Anne tumbling backwards, her hands scrabbling for something heavy to swing.
"Anne!" Steve bellowed on the other side of the door.
She cried out, overwhelmed with relief. Scrambling to her feet, she shoved her desk away from the door and pulled it open. Steve, who had been leaning against the door a moment before, tumbled in, hitting the floor with a sickening thud. He was unconscious, the front of his suit, the once-gleaming star, dark with blood.
A deafening crash in the hallway made Anne grab him under the arms, adrenaline lending her uncharacteristic strength as she pulled him into the office. She closed the door with a quiet click and pushed the desk back in place. She grabbed a spare lab coat, pushing it against the bottom of the door to block the light and turned on a desk lamp to better examine him.
She pulled off the mask and grabbed a pair of scissors from her desk to cut away the elastic blue fabric of the suit. He was covered in bruises, burns, and scrapes. A medical kit and a steady pair of hands provided the supplies necessary to knit together and bandage the deep gash that stretched across his chest. He had lost a lot of blood, but he would live. Surely, she thought, he would live.
"Captain," she whispered, and started when another crash came from the hallway. She shook his shoulders gently, "Steve."
He moaned, and she hurriedly pressed her fingers to his lips. A shuffling outside the door made the fog in his eyes clear. He moved to sit up, but winced at the sharp pain the shift caused. She met his eyes, shook her head slowly.
He stayed motionless until the sounds of movement in the hall subsided. Then, leaning on a file cabinet for support, he raised himself to his feet, pulling the mask over his head and starting towards the door.
"Please," Anne grabbed his arm, meeting his eyes gravely, "You're already hurt."
For a moment, Steve felt his resolve falter. One of his hands raised to brush a lock of hair behind her shoulder, lingering along the side of her neck. His gloved fingers traced her jawline. He saw her eyes drop to his mouth, a slight sigh passing between her lips. It was the way Peggy used to look at him. He banished the thought as soon as it came.
"I'll see you after."
It would be months before he would be able to say exactly what possessed him in the next moment, but suddenly he pressed his lips to her hairline, lingering just long enough to feel her lean into him.
As he left the room, he didn't dare look back.