"Bad Apple"

Steve's waistcoat was open and his shirt had ridden up a bit. Phil was currently tracing circles around his navel, lying on his side on the bed. Steve was staring at the ceiling with a small smile, his be-socked toes buried under the covers.

"Never thought this would happen to me," he said.

"What, lying on a fancy hotel bed?"

"Nah," Steve said, head rolling so he could see Phil. "Not just that, anyway. You."

"Me?"

"Yeah. Someone liking me… like that."

"Like this?" Phil said, and he leaned over and kissed Steve.

"Mmm," Steve confirmed after Phil pulled back. "I'm gonna miss you after you go back to work."

"I love my job," Phil said. "And I hate taking leave. But I'm so glad my boss made me have some time off, or I never would've met you. Is it bad that I just want to stay here with you, forever?"

"Maybe not forever," Steve said, blushing. "Life, all that. But…" He placed his hand on Phil's, halting its movements. "I agree with the sentiment. I wish this could never end."

"Does it have to?" Phil asked.

"Phil…"

"I mean it, Steve. If we could coincide nights off or something, we could still go to the movies or dinner, or both. You're legal. Barely, but still legal, otherwise I'd feel a hell of a lot more guilty about this," he added in a mutter.

Steve studied his face. He loved Phil's face. There was so much gentleness there whenever he looked at Steve. His eyes were a shade of blue which had become Steve's favourite colour. He was the handsome of movie stars of the Golden Age, in Steve's eyes.

"We could try," he said. "I want to."

Phil shook his head, and moved his hand to cup Steve's cheek. "How'd I get so lucky? I must've done something spectacularly good in a past life."

Steve smiled, and curled up into his side. He was gonna hold onto this while he could.

Zola recognised the mad woman at once. He despised selling to druggies; they did terrible things while not in their right minds, and then blamed him for their mistakes. But she wasn't dosed to the gills when they met and she made the abhorrent request of him. No matter how young the boy was, he seemed even younger, and there was something so much more despicable about killing children.

The scientist had very little in the way of feelings for anything or anyone, and his conscience was virtually non-existent. Yet he knew fear, and he had been dreading the moment Regina Schmidt discovered that the boy evaded him. He had escaped himself to New Jersey because the NYPD were putting on the heat, and it was time to expand again. Those he had educated in producing the Hydra drug remained where he had left them, while he travelled, searching for more buyers and distributors.

Now he was being collared by an incensed woman, never an entirely good combination. While she didn't tower over him, she still seemed as large as a giant in her sober rage; briefly, he questioned his life's choices.

"You cheated me!" she hissed.

"He fled," Zola said.

"Do not give me excuses. Give me results. He is here, in this very state. A hotel not far away. You will try again, and this time. You. Will. Not. Fail."

"I will provide you with the drug, but I will not undertake this," Zola said. "He will recognise me and run. Worse, he may report me to the police. He left a note saying that he would not inform them if I never made an attempted on his life again."

"Fool," Schmidt said. Beautiful she may have been, but not in a rage like this. "Does he know your name?"

"Possibly."

She growled and stalked away. Eventually she spun on her heel, and approached him again.

"You will give me the drug, and I will administer it myself," she said. "And you will not be paid. Consider it recompense for failing in the first place."

More worried about what she may attempt than the drug falling into the wrong hands, Zola handed her a sample vial of the poison.

"It must be mixed in pure water first," he said. "Then it can either be injected or ingested. This is not enough to kill outright; you will need to finish the job yourself—"

"It is more poetic that way," she said, staring at the powder in the light of the streetlamp.

"As you say," he said. "Do not find me again."

She waved him away, only half-listening ever since accepting the poison. She grinned, and left him.

Perhaps it was time to leave New Jersey? No. He would not be frightened off by one insane witch. He had more important business to transact, before the police could come across his trail.

Jasper smiled politely at the woman. Her makeup was a little too much, and he was pretty sure she was wearing a wig. It didn't look like her natural hair colour; it didn't match her dark eyebrows. And there was something too hard about her eyes, which contrasted with the beauty of her face.

"Here you are, ma'am," he said, dumping her bags on the floor. She flashed him a false smile, and stuffed a ten dollar bill into his shirt pocket.

"Thank you," she said. "I am only here for the night."

"You'll want help with your bags in the morning?" he asked. They seemed pretty light, despite being big bags. Too big for one night's stay. She was probably moving on somewhere else after this.

"No, I'm sure I'll be fine," she said. "Will someone be around to clean in the morning?"

"Yes, as long as you don't mind a male cleaner."

"Not at all," she said with her Stepford smile. "I will eat in the restaurant tonight, and perhaps for breakfast as well."

"Someone will bring it for you," Jasper said. "Anything else I can do for you?"

She looked him up and down. "Not at the moment. Perhaps later. Go now."

He saved making a face until he was out the in hall. She was creepy. Ms. King, he thought her name was. Johanna King? Steve was better at remembering stuff like that.

"Weird lady," he said when he reached the lobby again, and bumped into Bucky.

"Huh?"

"And I use the term 'lady' loosely."

"What're you talking about?"

"Woman I just helped upstairs, room three-oh-one," Jasper said, jerking his thumb towards the elevators. "Creepy as a horror movie villain."

"If there's a murder in the hotel, we'll know who did it, then," Bucky joked.

"I thought it was supposed to be the butler who did it."

"Yeah, but we haven't exactly got a butler here." Bucky winked, and returned to the restaurant, while Jasper went back to wait by the baggage trolleys in reception.

Regina didn't see Steve in the restaurant. She sat facing away from the bar, hoping that the cheap clothes and wig she'd bought were enough to fool Barnes. He was too busy serving other customers to pay her much notice, which was good. Someone was smiling on her intentions, if she was going undetected like this. Either that, or she was far sneakier than she gave herself credit for.

It wasn't until she went back to her room that she noticed a familiar blond leaving one of the rooms. He wished someone goodnight, thanked them once again for a pen they'd gifted to him, and then began to push the cleaning trolley.

He was the male cleaner. He would be coming to her room in the morning. All she had to do was poison him then, and make her escape while he was supposedly cleaning her room. He wouldn't be missed, not until the poison had had a chance to work its way to his heart, and end his 'fairness' once and for all. A perfect plan.

She considered that a guest had given him a present. He'd always been sickeningly sweet. What if she presented him with something to eat? He would take a bite, and then fall down dead. What could be simpler?

There was a bowl of fruit. She picked up one of the apples, the shiniest, reddest one of all, and washed it in the bathroom sink to brighten it up further. Then she set it, and a glass of water, on her bedside table. The vial of poison sat between. She would rise early, create the potion, and coat the apple in it. Even if it tasted awful, he wouldn't have time to react. Instant death!

Regina laughed loudly to herself as she collapsed back on the soft bedcovers. All her problems would be solved.

Steve noticed the housekeeping sign on the doorknob, and swiped his staff card to open the door. He kept it propped open with the edge of the cart. He could hear movement in the bathroom, and cleared his throat.

"Housekeeping," he announced.

"I'll be there in a moment!" she called. The strange woman in room three hundred and one, who Jasper had been complaining about. Her voice certainly sounded thick and raspy, as though she had cotton wool stuck down her throat. He shrugged off the unkind thoughts, and went about stripping the bed. He remade it efficiently, and was fluffing the pillows when the bathroom door opened and closed.

"I'll get out of the way," he said. He gave her a half-smile, not really wanting to linger. There was something about her, even in that glance, that he didn't like. And Steve really prided himself on liking nearly anyone. He went to move past her and fetch the used towels from the bathroom, when she stopped him.

"Wait, dear boy," she said. "Will you accept a present for your excellent cleaning skills? I have rarely slept in so well-made a bed, and the bathroom was spotless."

"Oh, uh—"

"A tip?"

"No, thanks. I don't accept them."

"Then at least a small token," she said. She picked up a shiny-looking apple, likely the one from the fruit basket. But if she thought she was doing him a favour, and wanted him to think that, who was he to reject the offer?

"Thank you, ma'am," he said, and he took it from her.

"Try it now, in case it's rotten," she said. Her voice sounded clearer then. It should've given him pause, but he hated to disappoint people, no matter how false they seemed. He tried to give the benefit of the doubt. What would one small taste do?

He obediently bit into the crisp flesh, and began to swallow…

Regina watched as his eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell backwards onto the floor. He hadn't even had time to swallow, his death was that swift. Rather than shout her victory, she grabbed her bags, stepped over him, and made for the elevator. It was a fast ride downstairs at that time of morning, and she went straight to the desk to pay her bill. It was somewhat extravagant, but a necessary evil. Like Steve Rogers's death. She chuckled to herself suddenly, startling the receptionist.

On the way out, she ran into James Barnes. His eyes snapped to meet hers, and narrowed in suspicion.

"Have we met?" he asked.

Rather than replying, she bustled past him and leapt into the next taxi.

On the stairs, a horrible feeling settled in the pit of Bucky's stomach. He'd always suspected that Regina Schmidt had been the one to have Steve attacked, no matter what Steve said. He'd always been far too trusting of people who just didn't deserve it.

And now… he had the worst feeling that the woman who'd just brushed past him was Schmidt. In their hotel. The hotel where Steve was cleaning. At… at this time of day…

"God no," he whispered.

Bucky pelted through the lobby, making for the stairs. Floor three. He wasn't going to risk the elevators being slow. If he lost his job running into random guests, he wouldn't care. Steve was way more important.

Inside room three-oh-one, he came face-to-face with his worst nightmare.

"Steve!" he shouted, and he fell to his knees beside his friend, who was turning blue in the face. His chest was barely moving, and he was staring into space, a terrible look on his face. "Steve, oh God, wake up. Wake up!"

His screams must have attracted the other guests, because there was the sound of running feet. It sounded like Jasper calling for an ambulance, a doctor, anyone.

"Get Coulson!" Bucky said. "He's a cop."

It wasn't necessary. Coulson ran into the room two seconds later, and knelt on the other side of Steve. Bucky had already torn off the tie and ripped the top buttons open.

"Is an ambulance coming?" Coulson asked.

"Yeah," Jasper said.

"How did you know to come?" Bucky asked.

"Call it cop's instinct, but I just felt that something was wrong. I was making my way downstairs, floor by floor, when I heard you shouting."

"Thank God for your instincts."

Coulson leaned over Steve's body – oh Jesus, no, not body – and sniffed his lips.

"Poison," he said. "We've been investigating this." His hands shook as he stroked Steve's cheeks. "Uh… okay." He trailed his fingers down Steve's throat. "There's something there. His chest's heaving. Something's blocking his airway." He rolled Steve onto his side and hauled him up. Then he thumped him on the back until Steve seized, and coughed up what looked like food. A bite of apple? Yes, there was an apple nearby, with just a bite taken out of it. Someone else joined them.

"Phil?"

"Bruce, it's the poison again. He's still alive, so I don't think there was enough, but his airway was blocked. I think it's clear now."

"Looks like he's breathing better. And here I was, thinking you were just trying to get out of another medical examination."

The guy had a medicine bag with him. He pulled out a stethoscope. Bucky vaguely remembered Steve gushing about how his boyfriend was a policeman on holiday, and that he'd been wounded in the line of duty, and had someone checking on him every so often. Dr. Flag? No, Banner? Something like that.

"Ambulance is here!" Jasper called.

"His spine's not in any danger," Bruce said. "We can't waste time. We'll carry him downstairs."

"I'll get them to wait in the lobby."

Coulson heaved Steve into his arms, though he probably still didn't weigh much, for all he said that he was bulking up. Ha. Bucky used his staff override; now that this was a bona fide emergency, he was allowed to. They zipped straight down to the ground floor, and Steve was soon being whisked away on a stretcher. Coulson insisted that Bucky go with him, said that he'd square it with Mr. Phillips.

"Just… look after him," Coulson said. This time he was talking to the doctor, who climbed in behind Bucky. "Okay, Bruce?"

"Phil, everyone knows how you feel about the kid," Bruce said. "We'll do everything we can to save him. But I think you need to prepare a report for Fury."

Coulson nodded. Bucky didn't doubt that he stayed standing where he was until the ambulance was out of sight. But right now, he had to give his full attention to Steve, and stay out of the way in case he coded.

If Steve died, Bucky was going to kill Regina Schmidt with his two bare hands.

It had been four or five months since Regina had poisoned Steve Rogers. She was happy until the day the opium den was raided. With her favourite club out of commission, and no realistic alternative, she was beginning to suffer withdrawal symptoms. It was getting so bad that she could have sworn the children were calling her a witch. She nearly tore her hair out in frustration, and raved up and down the halls at night.

And then the governors had the temerity to give her the boot, after they discovered her account books. The only highlight of that particular day was that she found a new den. It was a bit pricier – no doubt because the other one had been raided, and they could afford to raise the membership fees – but it was well worth it as she sank under the influence again.

It was gratifying hearing that she was the fairest one of all. However, one night…

"Mirror, mirror, on the wall," she drawled, arching in pleasurable anticipation, "who is the fairest of them all?"

"Steve Rogers is the fairest," the mirror said. Regina choked on her next inhale.

"It cannot be!" she said. "He is dead! I saw his collapse myself."

"Yet surely you saw him in the engagement notices?" the mirror replied. "He looked well indeed in that photograph. Well worthy to be called 'fairest of them all'. Much worthier than you."

Regina shrieked in anger. It couldn't be! She would find the paper and prove the mirror wrong. Steve Rogers was dead. She knew it. He had to be. She was the fairest!

Steve recovered. He was fortunate. There had not been nearly enough poison to kill him; enough to paralyse him temporarily, and make him terribly ill. But the drug was flushed out of his system, and he received many presents and cards in hospital. And Phil was a frequent visitor. He took descriptions from any of the staff who had seen the woman who poisoned Steve, and the descriptions were sent to New York as well. They couldn't find Regina – she had apparently been declared corrupt and sacked from her position at the orphanage – but it didn't matter. There was a security detail on Steve.

There was also a search warrant for Arnim Zola. Steve had eventually given his name, since it seemed fairly indisputable that Schmidt had been out to kill him all along, and that Zola was probably linked to the second attempt.

It confirmed Nick Fury's suspicions, and blew the poisoning case wide open. Whenever he wasn't with Steve, Phil was pursuing leads like a dog scenting for blood. He wasn't allowed to go anywhere by himself, in case he lost his temper and killed whoever might have provided the drugs to Schmidt.

"My hero," Steve murmured into Phil's ear. "Wish I could marry you tomorrow."

"You're not eighteen yet."

"I will be, if no one else tries to kill me."

"Not funny," Phil said, frowning up at him. Steve was standing behind him while Phil studied the case files.

"If I don't make jokes about it—"

"I know, I know. You'll have nightmares."

"We've all got coping mechanisms," Steve remarked. "Wish I had a legal guardian."

"I still wouldn't marry you until you were old enough not to need one," Phil said. "And Bucky doesn't count as a guardian."

"Mr. Phillips—"

"Agrees that it's best to wait."

Steve made a face. "Well, I'd better get going. I'll see you tomorrow." He kissed the top of Phil's head. "Don't work too late."

"I won't," Phil said. It was an empty promise, which they both knew he was likely to break. But he was close to finding Zola. Once they had him, they'd nab every one of his associates, and hopefully find records of those who had purchased from him. Phil had been appointed leader of the investigation, and they hoped to have the whole thing tied up by Steve's eighteenth birthday. Then he'd be free to help plan the wedding, and he'd have a second attempt at holiday leave for their honeymoon.

Steve was training up a replacement for his position at the hotel, a girl this time, named Peggy. He'd found a job at an art school closer to the police station, starting as a cleaner, but he'd be able to take classes at a discounted price. Bucky had helped him negotiate that. Steve had his sights set on becoming a painter. Or, if he could get into college, maybe become an art gallery curator, or even an art historian. Phil was going to support him every step of the way.

It was the first time he'd felt truly loved since his mother's death.

It was all over the paper. The poisoning ring had been brought down by the police, led from New Jersey by Phil Coulson. Coulson was getting a promotion out of it, and everyone who had a connection to the ring, and managed to slip through the nets, were going into hiding.

Regina had disguised herself again, but found out that Rogers no longer worked at the hotel. With the police still scouring for anyone connected to Zola, and especially with Rogers's fiancé searching for whoever intended him harm… well, she could hardly go and ask where he was now.

She went underground, dumpster diving, stealing, turning tricks to stay alive. Rogers's birthday passed without her knowledge; half the time she was in a drugged daze, going from club to club to find the perfect fix.

The mirror no longer called her the fairest. It never would while Steve Rogers was alive. But Regina was running out of ideas.

Until the wedding was announced

"I've got you now," she whispered, crushing the notice in her hand. She ran out the door, not bothering with disguise. She'd killed him, if it was the last thing she did.

"Psst!"

"What is it, Bucky?"

"Ding, dong, the witch is dead," Bucky said. He grinned from the doorway as Steve arched an eyebrow.

"Which old witch?" he asked.

"The wicked witch."

"How?"

"Let me put it this way," Bucky said, pretending to examine his nails. "Your fiancé was right to plant some of his guys at the door to the chapel. They recognised her at a hundred yards, and a couple of them gave chase." He met Steve's eyes in the mirror. "It took one truck, and her not paying attention…"

Steve hissed through his teeth. "She's really dead?"

"Died at the scene."

He nodded. "I know it's unchristian to say so, but I'm glad. She could've hurt Phil."

"She was after you, Steve."

"Yes." Steve didn't look away from him. "And to hurt me, really hurt me, she would've had to go after you or Phil."

"Aw, that warms my heart," Bucky snarked. "You ready?"

"I've been ready for a long time," Steve said. "Why am I marrying someone so old-fashioned?"

"Coulson would probably say that everyone needs a little old-fashioned."

"Probably," he said, smiling fondly at the thought of his soon-to-be husband. "Okay. I'm coming."

He adjusted his bowtie, and left the room to go and marry his prince and get his happy ending.

AND THEY ALL LIVED HAPPILY EVER AFTER

*Inserts random references*

Well, there we are, then! Much longer chapter than the previous two. Hope you all enjoyed it, especially the OP. I haven't been writing all that much Capsicoul at the moment, so it's nice to be able to return to my fandom roots, so to speak. (Hee-hee. Roots.)

Please review!