Merry Christmas~ And here's an update. :D This is something that's been hanging around for awhile, so I thought I'd put it up since I don't really know what else to do with it. It's not perfect, but I'll never put it up if I keep keeping it away. So...enjoy!
In the aftermath of the battle—and it was a battle, not a war—there is the clean-up. There is always the clean-up, but sometimes it doesn't mean that she has to clean up.
If she were still Back When and this was one of their battles against Schmidt, she'd probably not give two hoots about going through all that wreckage, all that devastation, and digging around in desperate hope to find…whatever it is that they always try so hard to find. They never know until they've found it—a body, a living person, some kind of token of remembrance. She never knows what she's looking for until she's looking down at a familiar face contorted into an unfamiliar expression.
But there are so many differences between the battles she'd fought then and the battle she'd just come out of.
For one, she doesn't have another skirmish lined up to recuperate and plan for, a schedule of miles into enemy territory they have to reach each day, coordination of strikes between her team and another's, pick-up of new supplies etc, etc. She's got nothing to do but sit on her ass and wait for the next call and maybe pick up some lessons on technology that the director wants her to take.
For two, the battle was right in the middle of her home. It wasn't far away in Germany or Hungary or France where it couldn't affect her beloved America. It was right in the heart of her country. She's bled for this place, died so many times for this place, and even though the picture of it is not an exact match to the one in her heart, it is still home. She can't stand looking out the window of her apartment and seeing the potholes in the road, the pile-up of cars, the weeping homeless. It's not right.
So she goes out the next day and, ignoring the ache of her shoulders and the twinge of healing scars, starts lifting.
Because someone has to do it, and Dr. Erskine had asked her to be one of them.
xXXx
The thing about being Captain America is that her face has been blasted on every piece of media since she accepted Senator Brandt's proposal. With her going into the ice, Howard had taken that fame and turned it into a nightmare of ridiculous spin-offs and outrageous shenanigans.
So, no matter what Director Fury said, there was really no point pretending otherwise with or without the uniform.
Unsurprisingly, when she started pulling up still-smoking car parts from the middle of the road and putting them in a pile at the street's corner, there were already seven SHIELD agents on her case. One of them even tried to get her to pull a balaclava over her head, as if those were any good.
When she refused, he tried to pull it on himself.
Kids these days don't have any manners.
(She'd put down the car door in her hands, picked him up, put him on the curb beside the pile, and said, "Son. Don't."
He'd squeaked up at her, mimed a salute and refused to be moved by his colleagues until she'd waved him away, feeling only a mite sheepish about it.)
It was another two minutes (she'd counted) before she got the call from the director.
"Captain, what in the fucking hell do you think you're doing?!"
She wondered what sort of rank Director Fury would have earned in the war. Given that he was coloured, though, she supposed there would have been some difficulty—more than what Peggy had faced—getting him the rank he'd deserve. She'd have liked having him on her team. He'd have been a formidable co-captain at least—someone to scheme together the best ways to wreck Schmidt's plans.
"With all due respect, director, I couldn't simply sit pretty and twiddle my thumbs while my home is still a mess," she drawled, not quite able to keep the bite out of her tone, idly wondering what sort of expression he had now. The realization that Captain America was a pretty sarcastic little shit had turned plenty of people on their head.
There was a pause and then a gusty sigh, "And here I thought you would be the least troublesome of them. Did you at least think about the press or the questions that would be asked? Your pictures are already on the internet."
"I think my pictures from the battle were already there," she replied wryly, remembering flashes from phones on the walk back to the Quinjet, "And if I remember correctly, I'd already lost my helmet. It wouldn't be that difficult to find a poster from back then and compare the two."
Again a pause, but this time with some resignation, "Very well Captain. I've got more worries than a World War Two hero coming back to life at the moment. I'm sure you've had interrogation training, so if possible, don't say anything about SHIELD or the other Avengers. I'll leave your own story to your discretion."
"Yes, sir."
As she handed the phone back to the agent, she idly mused that negotiating with military assholes had become a lot easier since the war. That was at least one thing to thank Howard for.
xXXx
"So, Captain! I see that you're sticking to your guns and upholding the American Dream and everything!" The obnoxious voice called out from across the street.
It was possible that the impeccable posture her ma had drilled into her slipped. Just a little. It had to be a family trait or something hereditary.
"What do you want, Stark?" she replied, getting the feeling that she'd be repeating that same sentence with that same exasperation many more times in the future. It was almost like a rerun, except with an older Stark. She tossed a broken doorframe into the pile.
The 'genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist' was still bearing the marks of the battle, the mottled bruises on his face now a bloom of purple and blue. Fortunately for him, he still had all his teeth—she'd have been gap-toothed after the war if her superhealing hadn't included new pearly whites.
"Oh nothing," he whistled innocently as he crossed the road, "Just checking up on everyone's favourite American Idol."
She grimaced. Talking to Tony was confusing at best, explosive at worst. Most times she avoided being alone with him so as not to be pulled into yet another argument. The calmest they'd been was during the battle, and even then she'd been calling him every name under the sun for being a dumbass and trying to kill himself saving everyone.
It was still a trial talking to him, but there was a lot she could overlook for someone who'd pull a sacrifice play for people he didn't even like. She wasn't sure they'd ever get along as well as everyone kept saying they should, but she was willing enough to give it a go.
"You look better," she told him honestly, the only harmless truth she could tell at the moment, before picking up a broom and pan to sweep the shattered glass away. The chore brought back memories of sweeping her childhood front porch, and that second first meeting with Bucky. She tossed the pieces into a bin.
A few moments of silence later, and she turned back to Tony, a little worriedly. The self-proclaimed Man of Iron had never been this silent before. The expression that she found on his face looked, frankly, rather painful. Faces shouldn't be able to contort that much, and the purpled skin was stretching in a way that was ghastly.
Mostly though, he kept staring at the broom in her hand like he'd never seen one before.
(Had he? It was hard to imagine someone never seeing a broom before but rich people were strange and Howard had proudly confessed to never seeing a washboard in his life until Steve'd shoved one under his nose so perhaps his son was even stranger?)
"You're…sweeping," Tony told her blankly, in a way that sounded as if he didn't know what sweeping was. And that was…just plain strange. She wasn't sure how to take that tone of his either.
"I am," she agreed dubiously, filling up another pan with glass and emptying it again. If Tony was going to take the whole year finding his words, she might as well get some work done while he searched.
He pointed, "You're sweeping."
She sighed, "Your point?" Another pan, the sidewalk was almost clean.
"You. You're sweeping."
Oh.
She rolled her eyes, a habit she'd picked up from Falsworth, and shrugged, "No-one else is doing it. Someone could get hurt."
"Are you for real?" the incredulity in that question was…she didn't know how to reply to that, "How are you something that is real? Jesus."
She…what was she supposed to say to something like that?
"Stark," she tried anyway, then blinked. Somehow they had attracted an entire troop of paparazzi, all armed with cameras and microphones. Her teammate remained ambivalent to the crowd as it pressed closer around them, eyes fixed on her face.
It was getting a little irritating.
But then again, it might be an opportunity, "You there."
She pointed at a random person wielding his camera at her. He blinked, looked about, and pointed at himself, "Me, sir?"
She nodded, "Can you tell me which places were hit the worst by the attack? And what efforts have been taken to clean them up."
The boy—and he was definitely just a boy—blinked at her again several times before launching into a list of areas that were badly damaged and the rescue efforts done there for people trapped under collapsed buildings and so forth. There hadn't been much action taken by the government, given that it had been only two days since the attack, but several groups of people had started organizing clean-up efforts.
Steve was a little surprised to hear that the Maria Stark Foundation had been the first to launch rescue efforts and provide food and shelter for the homeless. She smiled at Tony, which prompted another complicated expression. Maybe she'd ask to take a class on facial expressions on top of technology.
She thanked the boy for the information, idly mapping out a quick route to Central Square.
"I understand that this is part of your job," she told the crowd, "but I'd appreciate if you'd work on drawing more attention to things like that first. I'm pretty sure there'll be a conference about the Avengers when things have settled, but for now I can't comment on anything."
A blonde woman stepped (more elbowed her way) to the front with a microphone in hand, "So you're called the Avengers, Captain? I'd just like to confirm with you…"
She held up a hand and smiled wryly, completely unsurprised at the persistence of reporters, "Ma'am, I'm pretty sure I just told you I can't comment on anything right now."
There was a short burst of laughter from the crowd as the woman flushed and spluttered. Tony was still staring like a particularly baffled lunk of stone, but she wasn't about to leave him to the mercy of a scoop-hungry mob. She shot them another smile, put one arm over Iron Man's shoulders, and marched away.
She hadn't been sure she'd get away with it, but he didn't put up a fight and they'd thankfully decided not to follow.
Just to be sure, once they turned the corner, she broke into a light jog, hauling Stark along.
xXXx
"What was that?" Tony demanded, once he'd recovered his tongue, "Did you hypnotize them? Controlled their minds? Is that your real power?"
Steve stared. She was sure he hadn't gone insane, but still. You could never be sure. And Tony seemed as unhinged as his father. And Howard was, well. She removed her arm from over his shoulder gingerly, "Sometimes I really wonder how your mind works, Stark."
"You'll never know," he waved dismissively, "And you didn't answer my question. Did you control their minds? Do you emit obey-my-order pheromones?"
"If I did, wouldn't you be affected?" she pointed out dubiously. As they passed by a spill of bricks, she crouched, stuck out a leg, swept most of them to the side to avoid tripping over them and resumed walking without missing a beat. It was moments like this that she marvelled at the ease of her movements, the fluidity of which she'd never had before the serum.
"And that," he gestured wildly, "You keep doing that. While you're talking to me. It's like you don't even notice! How are you even real? Was your mother a saint or something?"
"Pretty sure she had to be, putting up with me an' Bucky," Steve replied, hiding a smile.
Tony muttered something under his breath, but continued walking with her.
When they reached Central Square, he even picked up a broom.
(Okay, so apparently he'd picked up a broom to tinker with, having never actually seen a real one before, but it was better than any trouble he'd attract by trying to help doing something he'd never done before.)
xXXx
When Steve bought the newspaper the next day, she saw her face looking back at her and sighed. The man at the cashier looked at the picture, looked at her, and then drew his phone out.
"I'm not coming back here again if you take that picture, son," she told him. It probably sounded kind of ridiculous, since he was at least twice her (physical) age, but she'd gotten over it.
He wavered over taking a picture, still sorta bug-eyed, but then put it back in his pocket with a stiff nod. Bless him. Then he gave her the most awkward salute she'd ever seen, but she figured she could at least humour him and show him a proper one in return.
And people say she doesn't have a sense of humour.
Obviously SHIELD has been keeping tabs on her, because her new satellite phone rang the moment she stepped out of the store with her groceries. She debates between picking it up, throwing it far, far away, or just ignoring it. It's too early in the morning for vulgarities and complaints about 'her' team when she doesn't even know any of them well.
What she does know is that Tony is keeping with his goal of being a pain in the director's ass, Bruce has tried to disappear into the Indian tropics, Thor has disappeared into wherever Asgard is, while Clint and Natasha are having partnership problems due to trust issues and Coulson's death. Which is, apparently, the director's current bone of contention.
She really didn't sign on to be a mother.
Or a wife.
Director Fury really needs to get a wife who can manage on the same level as he. Perhaps the Deputy Director Hill?
"With all due respect, sir," which means none, because she has no respect for a man who can't clean house after coming up with the idea, "I have no idea how this pertains to me. I was told that my sole duty was to help defend America from threats together with a team. I have done so. If there were revisions to this agreement I'd like to know when I agreed to them."
It was really blunt, barely military-speak, but she wasn't addressing a supervisor from the army. The position she'd been given was vague and she wasn't even sure if it was a position. Which meant…what? Freelancing?
Either way, there was no way Fury was saddling her with more responsibilities than she'd agreed to deal with. She was still wrapping her head around her own things.
xXXx
It's yet another day in New York City when she meets another of her teammates. Or two, she's pretty sure one never goes far from the other, no matter the trust issues they seem to be having.
She's met up with some of the relief groups and clean-up crews and they've arranged things so that she can help with more than just heavy lifting and they are able to spread their people out to other affected areas. She tries to leave the people-saving and retrieval missions to the authorities, because while she's sure she could do a lot of good moving things about, she can't promise the type of precision that they need. She could be careful, but they know what they're doing and they don't have the time to factor in a superhuman when they have perfectly capable teams and perfectly reliable (and fast) plans of action. These aren't the run-in-grab-people-run-out sort of rescues that she's better at.
So she does the other things so that they can concentrate on those, and helps clear away the debris so they can bring in the bigger vehicles they need. It's easy, if tiring work, but it helps her sleep at night without dreaming, and it stops her thinking too much about…
Well, it stops her thinking too much.
She's taking a break by a portable cooler the NYGCU (New York Great Clean Up) organization had set up when Natasha approaches. She's probably the only one of the team who moves completely silently to her supersoldier ears, which is probably why she's the one who comes up to her. One moment she's guzzling down a bottle of water, the next she's smiling kind of dopily at the Black Widow leaning over the cooler.
"Director Fury wants to know why you turned down the mission," Natasha goes straight to the point. She's speaking lowly enough that nobody can eavesdrop without being obvious and somehow nobody seems to really notice the beautiful redhead talking to Steve.
(Everyone had sorta gotten used to Steve helping out after a while. She'd asked Mindy, the coordinator, to stop the crowding and the pestering, and she'd been so effective that people literally ran away from her now. She's kinda afraid of asking what she'd done.)
The mission. Steve snorts.
After a couple days of nothing and some noise about classes, the director of SHIELD had called her up about some sort of surveillance mission in Uganda. The details were sparing, the agenda blurry, and even the 'thing' she needed to survey was described in obscure, vague terms.
Yeah, she'd already vowed never to be the pet soldier everybody seemed to want. There's a reason why she put the gun down firmly and picked up the shield. There's a reason why she told Howard she wanted a shield.
Nobody ever seems to listen, and those who do disregard it.
Too bad for Director Fury, she's never going to bend on that.
"I'm pretty sure I explained my reasons to him over the phone already," she replies calmly to the deadliest woman she's ever met outside of Madame Hydra. Her face, as usual, is still as stone. Meeting her gaze always feels like a challenge that may break into a fight.
She starts to ask about her and Clint, but stops herself from poking her nose into something that's none of her beeswax. From the noises everyone at SHIELD was making, it sounded pretty bad. Apparently, the Black Widow and Hawkeye partnership had been legendary under the thumb of the equally revered Agent Coulson.
Makes her wish she'd gotten to know the guy better. He'd been friendly, if a little enthusiastic about telling her how much good she'd done back in the War.
Fact was, he'd been the only guy who'd tried to be friendly.
Steve pursed her lips in thought, maybe she owed him some, especially for failing him when he'd been just down the hallway. The video footage they'd shown her (probably to guilt her) had been brutal—getting gutted was a painful death.
"So…how've you been?" she asked awkwardly. The stare she was given was too similar to a snake's. The deliberately slow blinks were eerie. Probably on purpose. She fumbled around for a moment, she really was no good at small talk, "You know, with all the," she gestured ineffectually, "after."
More bizarre staring, or perhaps baffled staring—you could never tell with her, but then Natasha was twitching her lip a little and saying, "Fine."
"Good!" she blurted, "That's good…" Trailing off awkwardly and staring at the wreckage on the road, she decided her break was over. There was still plenty of work to be done. "Well, I've gotta go. I'll just…" she stood up and brushed her pants, had a brief argument with herself before reaching over and patting the SHIELD agent on the arm, "It was good to see you."
And then she did her best not to scurry away from yet another moment that proved that for all her strange time-travelling experience, Steve Rogers was still really, really awful at talking to dames.
Just a little more character development. Some interaction with her teammates. Truthfully, I wasn't sure if I was ever going to continue this story, but voila! Surprise muse to the head. :D
By the way, anybody got some trivia on 1940s America? Lingo or practices or whatever. Thanks!
Memory25
