December 9, 2014
Steve's never really been a heavy sleeper. If it hadn't been an illness it had been the war and then after that, well, he'd certainly made up for it with seventy years in the ice. But it means that he is awake and aware the minute his cell phone jingles. The caller ID makes his heart thump, hard.
"Maria?"
"Steve."
She sounds vaguely confused, like she's not quite fully aware of what's going on. It's not adorable – it totally is – it's disconcerting. "Maria."
There's a sharp intake of breath before she swears. There's a part of him that's amused, sure, but he doesn't like how shaky the word sounds. He's pretty sure she's running her hand through her hair, probably trying to figure out how she'd managed to wake up with the phone pressed to her ear. The picture is as entertaining as it is concerning. She must've been pretty caught up to not realize what she's done.
"Everything okay?" he asks cautiously.
"Yeah." It doesn't sound all that convincing. "Yeah."
"Maria."
"It's nothing," she repeats.
"It's two in the morning."
It's not nothing.
"Steve, seriously, it's-"
"You had a nightmare."
There's an irritated grunt, then silence. He's got it, he knows, even without seeing her. She's called him after a nightmare. His heart swells at the trust it shows. It's something she's never done before. They've talked about things that haunt them, of course, even comforted each other in the aftermath of those terrors, but never has she actually reached out for him when there are streets between them.
He swallows though. When he's there with her, he knows what she needs. A light hand on her back, maybe weaving his fingers with hers, but nothing overwhelming. Nothing suffocating. Little things where she can still make an escape if she so chooses. Little things that don't threaten her belief in her ability to handle this herself. But here, over the phone, he doesn't know what to do.
"Do you want me to-"
"No."
He recoils a bit, can't help himself because she sounds so damn sure. She doesn't want him there.
"Steve, no, it's- It's late."
Or early. "It doesn't matter if you need-"
Me.
"I'm okay," she says and he tries not to let it hurt. "I'm good, just-" She clears her throat and he swallows, proud and twisted up inside that the sound make her seem embarrassed. "Talk to me."
He swallows. He doesn't want to and they both know it. He wants to put some pants on and break too many laws getting to her place despite the illogic of it. He's not a words person, he's so much more tactile and he doesn't like being across the city from her when he wants to wrap her up in his arms. God, he doesn't even know where to start.
"I caught pneumonia one year, before the holidays."
He doesn't know where the words come from. He doesn't know why he blurted them out, but the emotions are still there. He can still picture it visibly, feel it. He also hears the way her breath catches, the little hum she makes.
It's a little bit funny, that. They talk about so many things, but he rarely, if ever, talks about his life before the serum. Skinny Steve, Natasha calls him, after she'd dug up pictures of him and Bucky before the latter had gone off to war.
"They kept me in the hospital. My immune system was crap." He can laugh about it now. He knows back then for his mother, for Bucky, it really wasn't that funny. "Mom worked so hard. The hospital bills piled up. I hated it."
"Man of action," he hears her murmur, an unconscious echo of his need to be there with her. To do something. Her voice is stronger though and it helps him settle in, to relax. It's evidence that he's helping.
"I was supposed to get better. Doctors kept telling Mom not to worry about it, that I'd be home for the holidays."
But his body had betrayed him, as it had done so very often before Erskine. Sometimes Steve hated his lot in life – the violence, the fame, the dancing monkey he has to be for publicity and good will – but he could never hate the man who had given him a chance to really live.
"We didn't have much. We rarely did. Some years my only Christmas present was an actual dinner. Mom never cared." He laughs a little. "Neither did I."
She hums again, pulls him back from the story, just a little. Just enough. He fiddles with the blankets just a little.
"We both knew there wasn't going to be Christmas. I wasn't getting better and Mom could only work so many shifts…" He sighs. "Christmas Eve I was passed out for most of the day, hacking when I was awake."
"Sucks."
"Yeah." But he laughs because it's so long ago, so far away, but it always serves to remind him of what he did get in the end, what he continues to get even here, in this time.
Like her.
"But when I woke up Christmas Day Mom was there. Buck too, the idiot."
There's a bittersweetness to the words. He hears them, knows she does too. She doesn't comment though, just waits. There's anticipation there, a feeling that he has her full attention and then some. He never knew stories could do this to her. He's not convinced she knew either.
"No presents," he goes on. "We really didn't have enough for that. But I guess Mom had gone to Bucky's for Christmas Eve, when they kicked her out of the hospital. She hated going."
"You had a good mom."
There's something in her voice he doesn't like, but he doesn't press. Another time, he thinks, when she isn't already shaken, when he cares about something other than getting her back to a place where she can drift off, even for an hour or so.
"I think it was Bucky, actually," he says, and knows his smile is fond. "They had turkey sandwiches, stuffing. Even cranberries."
"Christmas dinner."
"Leftovers," he agrees with a laugh. "For breakfast."
He feels the beat she waits, wonders if any of her tells are showing, like the way she'll draw random patterns on the bedspread.
"Maria."
"You had good people."
"I still have good people," he replies, doesn't even have to think about it. He hasn't questioned it, really. Not even during the Triskellion. He doesn't have to. Sam and Natasha and even Tony and Pepper. Thor and Jane and Darcy who don't always visit but he knows. Bruce and Clint. They're all good people, if a little messed up.
Everyone's messed up.
And her. Always her now. In front of him, beside him, in his mind and he knows in his heart. It makes him gasp, just a little, makes his breath come hard and fast in his lungs. This is why he wants this, this holiday, these traditions, the advent calendar he doesn't often consult anymore. Maria's thrown it all in the water, there beside him every step of the way. With him.
A sigh floats over the phone, turns into that adorable yawn that she hates and he loves. Soft. Vulnerable.
"Better?"
She hums. "Sorry."
For waking him, he knows. "Maria."
That gets a tired laugh. "Never going to change, Rogers. Take it or leave it."
He knows that, is sure of it. She's never going to just bend into him and definitely not when she's feeling weak and vulnerable. But he knows now, that he can weave a different tale for her. That he can help her, even if it's not the way he'd like.
He doesn't tell her, but he knows he'll take it. All of her, just as she is.
God, he's a mess.
"Sleep?"
"Yeah," she says on a sigh. "Thank you."
"Sure thing," he says softly and feels those promises well up in his throat again. Promises to always be there for her, to make up stories if he has to, so long as it helps. Whatever it takes to help. It's what he does and sometimes, even when she doesn't want it, he knows it's what she needs.
"Tomorrow?" she asks, and he can hear her already drifting. Dozing.
"Tomorrow."
And he hangs up.
