Twenty-eight years post-Battle of the Continents
"Here you are, Mr Stark," stated the burly military officer as he pulled to a stop in front of a small three-bedroom house, lit only by the pale light of the moonbeams streaking through the clouds. Tony scowled as he gathered up his pile of books and notes and pulled his handlamp from his jacket pocket, trying not to think about just how many credits the military was wasting by escorting him home when he could've just as easily driven himself.
"Thanks for the ride," Tony muttered as he slid out of the car. He activated the handlamp, following the bright yellow beam as it led him towards the front door and hoping the noise from the lumbering vehicle wasn't loud enough to wake up his son.
As much as Tony would enjoy seeing his precious boy's smiling face after working late yet again, it wasn't worth it for Peter to miss out on the rest he so desperately needed. The boy needed all the sleep he could get, and Tony could no longer afford to be selfish about it. Not if he wanted Peter to make it to his twelfth birthday.
As for making it beyond that, well… Tony preferred to not think about that. Not if he could help it.
Fumbling for his keys, Tony finally managed to get the door unlocked on the third try, waving off the military goons as he stepped inside the black-as-pitch living room and set his stack of stuff down on the coffee table. Then he slumped down onto the overstuffed couch, tipping his head back as he rubbed at his aching temples. It had been a very long, very exhausting day, but Tony knew that he couldn't rest yet. Not until everything that he'd prepared for the new Air Corps class was completed to his satisfaction.
If he was ever going to convince the military leaders to give his more outlandish ideas a chance Tony knew he would have to blow them away with his more conventional ideas first, and that meant being as prepared as humanly possible. Even if it was only something as simple as teaching the next round of cocky flyboys how to navigate the newest line in aircraft finery.
Six brand-spankin-new X-302 aircrafts, all just waiting in the hangar back at the base for the pilots lucky enough to get to try them out, and costing an upwards of thirty million credits.
Each.
With a heavy sigh, Tony loosened the tie from around his neck and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt, lolling his head in the direction of the decanter of whisky tucked over in the corner, the amber liquid a dark shadow against the lower third of the fancy container. It was on nights like these when his cravings were the worst, when his fingers practically itched to hold the glass and he could almost taste the whisky on his tongue, burning its way down his throat and sending warmth blooming across his chest. But Tony hadn't had a single hard drink since Peter's emergency trip to the hospital back when he was three years old and he wasn't about to now, no matter how badly he wanted it. If this cockamamie plan of his was going to have any possible chance of success then he couldn't afford to slip up.
If he were braver he would've banned it from the house altogether, especially since Howard's indulgence in the whisky—and dependence on, for that matter—had been steadily increasing over the years. As it was, Tony tried to justify it by telling himself that very few things brought Howard Stark any true joy, and so if the occasional glass—or three—happened to provide him with just enough to help make Tony and Peter's lives a bit easier, well, then Tony supposed it was worth it for the peace it provided.
With three Stark men all living under one small roof they definitely needed the peace, and lately Tony had just been too exhausted to put up much of a fight.
Kicking off his shoes, Tony flung his tie in the general direction of the armchair and pushed himself up to his feet, grabbing his stack of books and following the glaring beam from his handlamp as he headed down the short hallway towards the bedrooms. Peter's door was cracked open, as per usual, so Tony peeked inside, relieved to see that he was sleeping peacefully.
Or at least as peacefully as he could with the massive oxygen mask that covered most of his face. Peter wasn't quite to the point where he needed the extra boost during the daytime hours yet, but Tony knew it would only be a matter of time before he got there, and then—
Nope, Tony thought firmly, shaking his head. Not gonna think about it.
As long as he would be able to present his new proposal to the military leaders before Peter's condition worsened any further, everything should be fine. Tony had checked and rechecked his arguments a million times and he knew the proposal was sound, with absolutely zero margin for error, so unless the military had completely lost its collective mind—which wasn't entirely out of the question—they would have no choice but to accept it.
And then, once they did, Peter could finally have the operation that he so desperately needed, the very operation he should've had way back when the doctors first discovered the problems with his heart. Problems that had grown steadily worse with every single one of his growth spurts.
Tony leaned his head against the doorframe, carefully shining the handlamp across Peter's skinny chest as he watched it slowly rise and fall with each of his laboured breaths, the slight hiss of his external oxygen sending a shiver racing down Tony's spine. Aside from his irrational fear of the dark, that godawful, evil-sounding noise was the one thing that he hated most in the world.
Pressing his fingers to his lips, Tony blew Peter a kiss before turning towards his own bedroom, setting his stuff down on the desk and activating the small oil lamp he kept for his nighttime work. The lamp flickered for a few seconds before finally illuminating, and Tony groaned as he noticed the low level of the lamp's oil reserves. He'd have to pick up some more the next time he was at the market.
Huffing out a sharp breath, Tony opened his notebook and quickly got to work, making a few minor changes to his notes for the upcoming class. The X-302s weren't too much different from the X-301s operations-wise, but Tony wasn't about to tell the pilots that. Better for them to believe that they couldn't fly the things without Tony's guidance than to allow their collective heads grow any bigger than they already were.
He had just finished marking his final note when an alarm suddenly sounded, blaring across the dark and silent house and causing Tony to startle so violently that the pen in his hand ran across the entire page of his notebook, marking a jagged line right through his notes. In a flash he was on his feet, knocking over his chair in his haste to race towards Peter's bedroom.
"No, no, no, no, no," he chanted under his breath as he skidded to a stop next to his beloved boy, tapping him on the cheek with his palm as he shined the beam of his handlamp across the generator panel that powered Peter's overnight oxygen, a strangled noise escaping his throat when he saw that the hose connecting the panel to the mask was loose.
"Pete? Buddy, it's Dad. Wake up for me, okay?" Tony choked out as he pressed the back of his hand to Peter's forehead, which felt as cold as an iceberg.
"Pete!" he pleaded, his panic spiking when Peter's head suddenly lolled to the side, his chest heaving as he attempted to suck in air. "Oh gods, Pete, don't do this! You gotta wake up, buddy, okay? You just gotta wake up!"
"Tony? Oh, you're home. What're you doing in here?" Tony suddenly heard from the hallway. He whipped his head back to find his father leaning against the doorframe, tying the belt of his ugly-ass robe around his waist. "I'm trying to sleep, what's with all the racket?"
"Call the hospital!" Tony shrieked as he fumbled with the fingerprint authentication for the oxygen connection, swearing when his shaking fingers refused to cooperate. "Goddamnit Howard, didn't you fucking hear me? Pete's colder n' hell! He's dying!"
"No, I'm pretty sure he's just sleeping," Howard said, or rather slurred, nearly tipping over in an attempt to cross his arms. "He seemed fine when he went to bed."
Tony's jaw dropped open, his angry retort dying on his lips as his panic-laden mind finally realised why Howard wasn't concerned.
Howard was drunk out of his gourd. Again.
Burning hot rage welled up inside Tony's gut, and he let out a growl as he was finally able to connect the hose, nearly sobbing when Peter whimpered softly and smacked his lips before sucking in a deep, rattling breath.
"Pete? It's gonna be okay, buddy, I'll make sure of it," Tony said as he ran his fingers through Peter's downy-soft curls. He quickly pressed his lips to Peter's forehead, his belly swooping at his frigid temperature. "I'll be right back, okay?
"See, I told you he was just sleeping—" Howard started, his mouth snapping closed when Tony shoved past him and into the living room, grabbing the telephone.
"I need an emergency medical transport!" Tony barked into the phone before the dispatcher could even finish his greeting. "My son, he's—he's—!"
"And do you understand the credit requirements for such a transport?" asked the dispatcher.
"Yes, goddamnit!" Tony shrieked, even as his heart sank down to his knees. Emergency medical transports were expensive, costing more credits than he earned in an entire year, but Tony knew that he didn't have a choice. There was obviously no way that he could trust Howard to keep an eye on Peter while he drove him to the hospital, and since civilians weren't even allowed to be on the streets without a military escort during blackout periods Tony couldn't risk the chance of being pulled over.
"Yes, I understand," he repeated, as calmly as he was able. "Please, just hurry!"
"Very well, transport will arrive in approximately eight minutes," said the dispatcher. "Please have the patient ready."
"Yeah, okay." Tony slammed down the receiver, hurrying back to Peter's room to find Howard sitting next to him on his bed, poking him in the ribs.
"See, he's not dying," Howard said as he poked Peter again, causing him to grimace beneath his mask. "You can't be dying if you're still ticklish, and he's definitely still ticklish."
"Oh for fuck's sake, get the hell away from him!" Tony snapped as he shoved Howard aside, nearly sending him to the floor. At the last second Howard grabbed onto the foot of Peter's bed, shock registering on his face as he looked over at Tony, blinking as if he'd just realised he was there.
"Tony?" he said as his eyes flicked between Peter and Tony. "What's going on? What's wrong with the boy?"
Tony squeezed his eyes closed, fighting against the tears threatening to fall as he took Peter's freezing hand between his own, cradling it against his cheek.
"You didn't connect his oxygen properly before he went to sleep," Tony said, low and tight. "The hose—it wasn't fastened the way it was supposed to be, so when Pete moved in his sleep, he—he—" A single tear snaked its way down his cheek. "Oh gods, I can't lose him now. Not after—not after everything—oh gods please, don't take him from me now!"
"Oh no," Howard said softly. He swallowed hard, tilting his head. "I… um… well, the connection, it looked—it looked right to me when I did it, but—but maybe I didn't get as good a look as I thought, and—"
"Yeah, and how many goddamn drinks did you have before you hooked it up, huh?" asked Tony. "Well? How many?"
"I don't know, Tony," Howard said quietly, his shoulders sagging as he suddenly aged twenty years in less than three seconds. "I wasn't exactly keeping track."
"Holy shit, I can't even believe you," Tony whispered, pressing his lips to Peter's ice-cold palm. Then he looked his father straight in the eye, his jaw so tight he could hear his teeth grinding. "You are never to come near him again, you understand? Not. Ever. Again!"
Howard gulped, raising his hands. "Tony, look, I know you're upset, and you have every right to be, but—"
"No!" Tony said, cutting him off. "No more second chances, not anymore! Goddamnit, Howard, Pete needed you tonight! He needed you, and you weren't fucking there!"
Just like you were never there for me.
Why the hell did I think it could be any different?
"Daddy?" Peter suddenly croaked through his mask, his huge brown eyes glassy with pain. "I don't—I don't feel so good. My chest, it hurts, and—"
"Shh, buddy, don't try to talk, okay?" Tony soothed, brushing Peter's hair from his forehead. "We're gonna get you taken care of as soon as we can, don't you worry."
Peter coughed, a wet, horrible cough that was so slimy it nearly snapped Tony's already fraying nerves.
"Uh—uh huh."
A boisterous pounding on the front door followed by a loud, "Oi!" prevented Tony from saying anything else, and he gently set Peter's hand down at his side.
"The hospital people are here now, buddy, and they're gonna take good care of you," he said. "I'll make sure of it."
"No, Daddy, please!" Peter cried as Tony hurried towards the door, his pathetic voice squeezing Tony's heart like a vise. "Please don't take me away, I don't wanna go!"
"Oh gods, it's a kid," one of the medics said as soon as he laid eyes on Peter. "What's his medical history?"
"He—he's got a heart condition," Tony forced past the knot in his throat. "ASD and partial anomalous PVR."
The medic's eyebrows shot up as he swabbed Peter's arm with an alcohol pad while the second medic prepped an IV kit. Tony immediately reached for his son's hand; Peter absolutely hated needles.
"Little stick coming, Pete," Tony warned, his heart lurching when Peter let out a whimper. "It's all right, buddy. I'm here."
"Hurts, Daddy," Peter whispered.
Tony dropped his head, stroking his fingers through Peter's hair. "I know, bud, and I am so, so sorry. I wish I could make all of this just go away."
Why can't I make it all go away?
"Tony, let me go with him," Howard pleaded as the medics loaded Peter onto their stretcher. "Please, you need to finish your work, you know they won't let you—"
"No way in hell!" Tony exclaimed, only barely clinging to his temper. "I meant what I said, you're not ever getting near him again, you got that? He might never be able to come home after this!" As soon as the words left his mouth Tony clapped his hand over it, his fear threatening to drown him as he looked down at his beloved boy.
Oh gods, what if he can't ever come home again? What am I gonna do?
"Pete," he stammered. "Buddy, I'm so—I'm so sorry, and—"
"Dad, just stop arguing with Grandpa, okay?" Peter said, his lower lip shaking. "It's not gonna change anything."
It won't change anything. It won't change anything.
Why can't it change anything?
"Yeah, bud. Okay."
"We need to get going now, his O2 sats are only eighty-two percent," the second medic said. "I've already informed the hospital."
Tony held Peter's hand as the medics took hold of the stretcher, guiding it towards the door. At the last second he grabbed the worn notebook from Peter's bedside table, tucking it under his arm as they stepped outside, the red flashing lights of the transport vehicle almost too bright against the somber darkness of the neighbourhood. Climbing into the transport after Peter, Tony glanced back up at the house to see Howard standing in the doorway, his head down and his shoulders curled in.
Good, Tony thought bitterly. I hope he feels guilty for the rest of his miserable life!
Unfortunately that thought didn't help Tony feel any better, especially once they arrived at the hospital and the doctors sprang into action. The next three hours were amongst the longest of Tony's life, pacing back and forth in the hallway as the doctors tried to get Peter's oxygen saturation to climb high enough to support his vital functions without having to resort to using a ventilator, which with Peter's already deteriorated state would've pretty much been a death sentence.
"I'm afraid he won't be able to leave here again, Mr Stark. Not until he's able to have his operation," the lead doctor somberly told Tony once Peter was finally stabilised.
Tony nodded, his throat so tight he could barely speak.
"I understand."
"It's a wonder that he's lived this long given the heart defects that he has," the doctor continued. "He's a pretty remarkable young man."
"Yeah, I know it," Tony said. "Can I go see him now?"
"Of course."
Peter was sleeping when Tony got to his room, so he slumped into the chair next to his bed and carefully took his hand, his heart lurching painfully at the sight of his beloved boy covered in wires and tubes and surrounded by beeping monitors. The oxygen mask he was wearing covered most of his face, and while his pale cheeks and lips were no longer the horrific shade of blue they had been when they'd arrived, they were still nowhere near what Tony would consider normal.
Please, buddy, hold on just a little bit longer!
The sun was just beginning to climb over the horizon when there was a knock on the door.
"Come in," Tony croaked. He removed his glasses, rubbing at his stinging eyes as a young blonde-haired nurse entered the room, her pretty face twisted in sympathy.
"I'm sorry, Mr Stark, but there's two Safety Officers outside waiting to escort you to the Air Corps base."
Tears stung Tony's eyes, and he quickly swiped them away. Why the hell would he even think that the military would care at all about what he was going through?
They don't give a damn about anyone but themselves. I don't even know why I bother.
"All right," Tony said, his shoulders sagging in defeat. He carefully brushed the hair from Peter's forehead before pressing a kiss there. "You'll tell him I'll be back as soon as I can, won't you?"
The nurse gave a nod. "Of course I will."
"Thank you."
Stepping into the hallway, Tony didn't even bother to make eye contact with the Safety Officers as he informed them that he needed to stop by the house to pick up his notes before returning to the base. Howard was nowhere to be found, likely either sleeping it off in his room or out wandering the neighbourhood as he'd been known to do from time to time, which suited Tony just fine. He was in absolutely no mood to see him again anytime soon.
In fact, if he never saw him again at all Tony was fairly certain he would be just fine. For almost his entire life Howard had brought Tony nothing but pain and anguish, and Tony could no longer afford the energy it took to try and fix things.
Not when his son's life was hanging by a thread.
Steve sat back as the waitress arrived with their drinks, running his finger along the rim of the glass that she set in front of him and trying to ignore the thundering beat of the music that filled the pub. He'd never been one for such loud music but the location hadn't been his choice. That had fallen on Sam's shoulders.
"Will you boys and girls be needing anything else?" the waitress asked as she stepped back, eyeing Sam up and down.
"No, thanks," Carol said from across the table, her own glass clutched in her hand. "I think we're good."
As soon as the waitress was gone Steve clapped Sam on the shoulder, kicking himself that he couldn't seem to come up with anything to say that didn't sound obnoxious or trite. Normally he was quite good with words, so good that many of his teammates had taken to teasing him about it, but apparently this was not one of those days. As a test pilot flying experimental aircraft, the possibility of losing a teammate was something that weighed heavily on Steve's mind every single time the wheels of his aircraft lifted off from the runway. Experimental aircrafts were by their very nature unpredictable, and every pilot who flew them understood both that and the risks—and glory, there was plenty of that as well—that came with it.
And yet, it still managed to hit Steve like a freight train every single time one of them didn't make it back to the barn.
Dugan. Morita. Falsworth. All teammates of Steve's that he'd lost in the last three years since he had first qualified for the program, and all deemed unavoidable accidents as a result of testing experimental aircraft.
And now yet another had joined those ranks, the cold, empty chair at their table a sharp reminder at just how fleeting life could be.
Clearing his throat, Steve squeezed Sam's shoulder as he raised his glass in the air, nodding at Sam, Carol, and Bucky to do the same.
"To Riley," he said, clear and true.
"To Riley," the rest said simultaneously before all four of them downed the contents of their glasses. Steve grimaced as the sharp liquor burned its way down his throat, fighting against the urge to cough. He wasn't that much of a drinker, especially of the hard stuff, as Bucky liked to call it, but out of respect for Sam he hadn't protested when Sam had ordered five rounds of what had been Riley's favourite brand of whisky.
"So, have you been out to see the kid yet?" Carol asked once she set her glass down, waving the waitress over for another. "How old is he now?"
"Yeah, I just saw him yesterday when I brought Riley's stuff out to Erin. I think he's six months now? Something like that. Looks just like Riley too, poor kid."
"Mmm. And how's Erin doing?"
Sam gave a shrug, downing his second glass of whisky so fast the waitress barely had a chance to set it down.
"Eh, you know how it is. The kid keeps her pretty busy, probably helps keep her mind off of things, ya know? Keeps her from dwelling on it."
"Yeah, that's what Maria always says too," said Carol. "She calls Monica her anchor all the time, says she would've been lost without her after her husband was killed."
"Yeah, I guess I can see that." Sam let out a heavy sigh, shaking his head. "I dunno, it all just kinda sucks though."
"Yeah, it does," agreed Bucky. "Kinda almost makes me wanna take a shot at those goddamn Meridians every once in a while. Let them see what it's like for a change."
"Yeah, but that right there's the same kind of thinking that got us into this whole damn mess in the first place," said Sam. "It's not a matter of who shot first anymore, it's all about who keeps shooting."
"Yeah, well, tell that to Riley's wife and kid," Bucky snapped, slamming his glass down onto the table so hard that Carol jumped. "At some point you just gotta either say stop, or fight back. It's getting to the point where I don't even care how cool the aircrafts are anymore. This whole constant patrolling thing is just a massive waste of resources that could be better used for other things. Like allowing our fucking lights to turn on whenever we want 'em to, for example."
"Well, isn't that what this newfangled thing we're starting tomorrow is supposed to address?" asked Sam. "The next phase or some shit like that?"
Carol scowled, shooting Steve a questioning look. "Yeah, I guess so. You okay there, Cap?"
"Oh, yeah," replied Steve, plastering on a smile he had no doubt that Carol could see right through. "Just a bit tired, you know? I was at Ma's all last weekend trying to help her out. Her arthritis has been flaring up a bit again, so I've been trying to fix up some stuff around her house to help make things easier on her."
"Yeah, well, tell her I said hi next time you talk to her, okay?" said Carol as she glanced at the timepiece fastened around her wrist. "I'm already late to meet James."
"Will do."
"Yeah, I think I'm gonna get going too, Steve," said Sam, nudging him in the arm. "I got some stuff to go over before we start that fancy new class tomorrow."
"I'll go with you," said Bucky as he rapidly downed his third glass of whisky. "See ya later, Stevie."
Steve rolled his eyes. "Yep, see ya later."
As soon as he was alone Steve dropped his chin to his chest, gripping his head between his hands. He had been trying to hide it from his friends, but Riley's sudden death seven days ago had thrown him for a pretty big loop, one that he hadn't yet managed to shake. It had been just another routine mission, scouting the skies above Langara in the new X-301 aircrafts with Sam and Riley, something they had all done too many times to count, when, while testing out the banking arc, Riley had pulled back just a split-second too late, ending up just a hair over the hardline DMZ.
And the very moment the tip of his wing tripped that invisible barrier, the enemy's automated anti-aircraft defence system kicked in and he was immediately taken out, the resulting fireball so blinding that Steve almost flew head-on into Sam before he was able to recover.
Steve shuddered as he recalled the searing heat of that fireball, and the shock that he'd felt at seeing someone he'd spent nearly every single day with for the last three years suddenly vanish while being completely and utterly helpless to stop it.
It was like Sam had said; that they had been up there just to watch.
And now there was yet another Langaran test-pilot widow, and yet another Langaran child growing up without a father.
Just like he had.
It took him a few more seconds to realise that none of the others had bothered to leave any credits behind for their drinks, something that brought a slight smile to Steve's face as he dug into his back pocket, peeling off the required number of bills and laying them on the table. He'd get them all back the next time.
In fact, if his memory was correct, and it always was, Bucky had managed to skip out on paying the last three times, something Steve would be sure to pass along to Sam once he saw him again.
Getting to his feet, Steve grabbed his worn brown leather jacket and slung it over his shoulder, checking his timepiece on his way out of the pub. It was only 1600, and since he'd already completed his aircraft double-check and filed his mission report for the day, that meant he had plenty of time to make one of his hospital visits before he returned to the barracks for dinner.
As if in direct contrast with his stormy emotions, the sun was shining brightly outside, the early summer air crisp and cool as Steve mounted his motorcycle and took off in the direction of the nearby hospital, smiling as he felt the breeze whipping across his face and through his hair. He never bothered with a helmet, something he knew drove his ma mad with worry, but he had always rather enjoyed living a bit dangerously. There was nothing quite like the adrenaline rush that one got pulling out of a 3G dive just in time to avoid pancaking against a mountain, and since Steve had been driving motorcycles even longer than he'd been flying aircraft he figured he didn't need to worry about a helmet.
Especially since he had driven out to that hospital so many times he likely could've done it in his sleep.
"Hey, Sharon," Steve said as he arrived on the paediatric floor, smiling fondly at the pretty, blonde-haired nurse sitting at the nurses' station. "How're you doing today?"
"Hey, Captain!" Sharon replied, shooting Steve a quick smile. "It's always good to see you. How's it going over there on the flight deck?"
A stab of pain pierced Steve's heart, one that he pointedly ignored.
"Oh, you know," he said quickly. "Patrols and more patrols. I'm starting a new class tomorrow though, so maybe things'll get switched up a bit."
"Oh. Well, that sounds like fun," said Sharon. "So, are you here to see someone?"
Steve gave a nod. "Yeah, thought I'd stop by and see what Tyler's been up to. Is he still here?"
"Actually, he's not," answered Sharon. "He finally turned a corner about three days ago and was just discharged earlier this morning. The doctors expect him to make a full recovery."
"Aw, that's wonderful!" Steve exclaimed, even as he felt a pang of regret. He had really enjoyed getting to know Tyler.
"I'm just sorry that I didn't get to say goodbye to him."
"Yeah, especially with the nasty type of pneumonia that he had," Sharon said with wide eyes. "Kids really are resilient, you know?"
"Yeah, they sure seem to be," said Steve. "Is that why you love working with them so much? 'Cause they're resilient?"
"Oh gods yes," Sharon said, nodding swiftly. "That, and they don't complain about stuff nearly as much as adults do." She gave her keyboard a tap and grabbed another chart off the counter, one that was so thick its binding was starting to fray. "There is another kid who just came in early this morning, though, and I'd wager that he would really appreciate some company. Especially from a hotshot pilot like yourself."
"Oh? What's his name?"
"Peter," said Sharon. She tucked the chart to her chest and leaned forward, lowering her voice. "He's got a pretty bad heart, poor little guy. The night nurse said that she'd never seen a kid's face that blue before."
Steve winced, crossing his arms across his front. "Yikes. Is he gonna make it?"
"I hope so." Sharon huffed out a sharp breath as she bit her bottom lip, lowering her voice even further. "I'm not really allowed to talk about his family, but… let's just say that he needs a pretty expensive operation, but there's a lot of mitigating circumstances out there that are muddying the waters. It just sucks because he doesn't deserve any of it, you know? And yet he's still the one that's suffering for it."
Anger welled up inside Steve's gut, so strongly that it almost frightened him. He hadn't even met the child yet and already felt very protective of him. "Okay, but you're not saying that his parents—that they're—?"
"Oh no, that's not it at all," Sharon assured him. "I don't think I've ever seen a more overprotective father than this kid's dad. I mean, the only reason he's not in there with him right now is because he was afraid that he'd get fired. It's just… well… you know our government, right? I mean, you're around it every day, so…"
"Just the Air Corps part," said Steve. "I don't really know much about what goes on anywhere else."
"Well… like I said. It all just pretty much sucks." Sharon tilted her head, giving Steve a warm smile. "I'm sure he'll perk up once he sees you, though. He's a real sweetie but he's pretty down at the moment. The doctors don't think he'll be going home anytime soon."
"Well, then it's a good thing I'm here," Steve said. He tapped his palm on the counter, returning Sharon's smile. "Thanks, Sharon."
"Sure thing."
Heading down the hallway, Steve paused just outside the door to Peter's room, his mind swirling with what Sharon's cryptic words could possibly mean. What sort of mitigating circumstances could exist that would be murky enough to prevent a child from getting a potentially life-saving surgery, especially if he was as bad off as Sharon made it sound?
And she had only mentioned the boy's father, so did that mean he didn't have a mom? Or that the mom wasn't involved?
Ultimately Steve knew it really wasn't any of his business, but yet he couldn't help but wonder.
Inhaling a deep breath, Steve gently knocked on the door.
"Come in?" a small voice responded, weak and timid.
Stepping inside the room, Steve was greeted by a young boy, maybe ten or eleven years old, with probably the biggest and sweetest brown eyes that he had ever seen partially hidden by a mop of brown curls that hung across his forehead. The boy's skin was ghostly pale, nearly as white as the various bandages covering the three separate intravenous tubes attached to his skinny arms, but he smiled politely as Steve approached him, letting out a weak, wet cough as he raised his hand to wave hello.
"Hi," he said, tilting his head as his eyes narrowed. "I'm Peter."
"Hello Peter," said Steve, attempting a smile. This boy was obviously far, far sicker than Tyler had ever been, and Steve wasn't quite sure he was comfortable with that yet. "My name is Steve."
"Hi Steve," said Peter. "You don't look like a doctor?"
"That's because I'm not," answered Steve. "I'm actually a pilot with the Langaran Air Corps."
Peter's eyes narrowed even further. "Oh," he said warily. "Okay, so then what are you doing here?"
Steve gulped at the boy's suspicious tone, the way his brown eyes swept across his uniform in only partially-concealed disgust. It was definitely not something that Steve was used to experiencing.
"Well, you might say I'm a volunteer of sorts," he said. "My friend, Sharon, who's your nurse, invites me to come and visit with the sick kids sometimes. She says it helps them to feel better."
"Um… why does she think it'll help us feel better to talk to an Air Corps pilot?"
"Well…" Steve stammered, unsure quite what to say. "Sharon mentioned something about your father having to go to work, so maybe she just thought that you might want some company?"
Peter's lips pursed at the mention of his father, and he slumped back against his pillows, carefully crossing his arms.
"My dad did have to go to work," he said, rather petulantly. "He didn't want to, but they didn't give him a choice. They never give him a choice."
Steve's heart gave a lurch at Peter's tone, resignation laced with a heavy layer of sadness. What job could possibly be so important so as to keep a father from being with his sick child?
"I'm very sorry about that, Peter," he said softly. "It's really not fair."
"No, it's not." Peter let out a heavy sigh, punctuated by another wet cough as he glanced up at Steve. "So how come you're not at work?"
"Well…" Steve said as he grabbed the hard chair shoved into the corner, dragging it next to Peter's bed. "Do you mind if I sit down?"
Peter shrugged. "No, I guess not."
"Thanks." Draping his jacket across the back, Steve settled his large frame down onto the uncomfortable chair, crossing his legs. "I fly patrols that monitor along the DMZ border every day. I was up in the air by 0630."
"Oh," said Peter. "That's pretty early."
"Yeah. I'm on the A-shift, which briefs at 0600 every morning," Steve said. "B-shift starts at 1200, the C-shift at 1800, and then the D-shift at 2400. We're up there flying patrols around the clock."
"Mmm," Peter said as he rubbed at his nose, briefly disrupting his oxygen tubes. "And what do you like to do when you're not patrolling?"
"Well…" Once again Steve was at a loss for words, and it was more than a little unnerving. He'd never visited a kid before who wasn't immediately impressed with the fact that he was a pilot. Most of the time the kids' mouths dropped open as soon as they laid eyes on his uniform, but judging from Peter's attitude he was almost repulsed by it.
"I like to visit my ma," he continued. "She used to be a nurse, actually, before her arthritis got too bad and she had to retire." He tugged on the tight collar of his shirt, clearing his throat. "I also like to draw, when I have the time."
"Really? That's so cool!" Peter said, his entire face lighting up so fast that it almost startled Steve. He reached underneath his blankets, pulling out a worn, dog-eared notebook and placing it on his lap. "I like to draw too, but my grandpa always says that it's a waste of time, so I don't get to do it much when he's at home."
"Oh, that's too bad," said Steve. "Do you and your parents live with your grandpa?"
"Eh, it's more like he lives with us," Peter said as his huge brown eyes clouded over with sadness. "He and my dad don't really get along all that great, but… he's old, and he doesn't have anywhere else to go, so…" He paused, biting his full bottom lip as he shook his head. "I don't really wanna talk about it anymore."
"That's okay, we don't have to," Steve said quickly. He jerked his head towards the notebook in Peter's lap. "So, what do you like to draw?"
Peter shrugged. "Pretty much anything, I guess. I don't get to go outside very often so it's mostly stuff I can see through my bedroom window." He shifted closer, lowering his voice. "I'm also helping my dad a bit with one of his side projects, but I'm not allowed to talk about that. It hasn't been approved yet."
"Ah, I gotcha. Then I promise I won't tell anyone," said Steve. "And, if you don't mind, maybe I can bring in one of my sketchbooks next time and we can draw together?"
A wide smile stretched across Peter's pale lips, one that Steve couldn't help but mirror.
"Sure! That sounds fun!"
"Great!" He gently clapped his hand on Peter's shoulder. "Would you mind showing me some of your drawings?"
"Oh, sure." Peter opened his notebook, skipping over several pages until he came across an impressive drawing of a squirrel sitting on a windowsill.
"This little guy likes to sit outside my window sometimes," Peter said. "I've named him Cashew."
Steve immediately laughed, an honest-to-goodness true belly laugh, realising about a split-second later that he could not honestly remember the last time he had done so.
And for someone with an eidetic memory, that was saying something.
"That's a perfect name for a squirrel," he said as he scooted closer. "I love it!"
"Yeah, he's pretty sweet," Peter said as he turned another page, this time showing Cashew nibbling on what looked like a crust of bread. "I like to feed him sometimes too, but don't tell my grandpa, 'kay? He'd think it's a waste of food."
Steve gave a solemn nod. "I promise."
"Thanks," said Peter as he turned another page, on which was a beautiful drawing of a polar bear cub frolicking in the snow. "This one I drew from a picture in an old magazine since I've never been able to see one in person. Isn't she cute?"
"She sure is," agreed Steve, and she truly was. Peter was indeed a very talented artist for such a young child, something that Steve could recognise as an amateur artist himself. But at the same time, Steve could understand why the boy's grandfather wasn't encouraging of his talent. Artists weren't exactly revered in Langara, a society that had become so entrenched in combat and strategy and just war in general, that things like art had long since fallen by the wayside.
Steve became so engrossed in Peter's artwork and their conversation that it didn't even occur to him to check the time until Sharon knocked on the door with Peter's evening meal.
"Steve, you're still here?" she said in surprise as she set Peter's food down on the rolling table and reached for her stethoscope, placing the bell against Peter's chest. "I thought I had just missed you leaving."
"Ah, yeah," Steve said, flustered as he checked his timepiece. It was already nearly 1900 hours, more than an hour after he had planned to be back. "Actually, I was just leaving."
"Oh, you were?" Peter said, his face falling. "Do you have to?"
Steve's throat tightened, and he placed his hand gently on Peter's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Peter, but I do need to get going now. Is it all right if I come back tomorrow and see you again?"
"Yes, please," Peter answered with a rather emphatic nod. "And don't forget your sketchbook, okay?"
"Sketchbook?" Sharon said, replacing her stethoscope around her neck. She reached for Peter's wrist next, checking his pulse. "I didn't know you knew how to draw, Steve?"
"Yeah, it's just a hobby," Steve said quickly. He cleared his throat, well aware that his cheeks were about as red as his ma's favourite lipstick. "You know, just something to pass the time in the barracks."
"Oh, sure," Sharon said, winking. "Guess that means they're not keeping you flyboys busy enough though, hmm?"
Steve grunted, patting Peter once on the back. "Peter, I'll see you tomorrow, okay? Have a good night."
"Uh huh," Peter replied. "Thanks."
With a quick nod in Sharon's direction, Steve hurried from the room and out of the hospital, barely pausing to take a breath until he was on his motorcycle and racing back towards the barracks. It was so unlike him to lose himself in a conversation like that—and with a kid, no less, one that he'd never even met before—and it was throwing him for a far bigger loop than he cared to let on.
After dropping off his jacket in his quarters and grabbing a book, Steve was just rounding the corner towards the mess hall when he nearly ran headlong into Colonel Phillips, the Air Corps squad commander, barely avoiding upsetting the full cup of coffee in his hand.
"Watch yourself there, Captain Rogers!" Phillips barked as he took a step back. "It never does a pilot any good to have his eyes on the ground!"
"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir," Steve said automatically as he stood to attention, offering a salute that Phillips nodded away with a barely-suppressed eyeroll. "It won't happen again."
"Mmm," grumbled Phillips, tilting his head. "You look distracted, Rogers. Something on your mind?"
Steve's heart gave a painful lurch. Now was not the time to be thinking about Riley, and his baby son who would be growing up without a father.
Or the boy Peter, sitting alone in his hospital room.
"No, sir. Nothing besides dinner, sir."
Phillips scowled, narrowing his eyes.
"Well, I hope that's the case, Rogers, for your sake. 'Cause as much as it irks me to admit, this newfangled class you and all of your hotshot friends are starting tomorrow morning could very well be the most important thing that you ever do in your lives, you got that?"
"Yes, sir," Steve said firmly. After almost ten years in the Air Corps Steve was well-used to Phillips' warnings. And his tendency towards hyperbole.
"And, as much as it really irks me to admit," Phillips continued. "The fact that this new class is being taught by a civilian liaison instead of one of our own should have absolutely no bearing on you or any of your squadmates' behaviour during such class, is that understood? I don't wanna hear so much as even a hint of a whisper of insubordination, you got that? You can think what you want about civilians all you want, just don't you dare let any of those thoughts be loud enough to be heard. Is that clear?"
Steve's lips twitched. He personally hadn't enough encounters with regular civilians to formulate an opinion of them one way or another, but he knew the same couldn't be said for some of his predecessors, or even his teammates. The pilots in the Langaran Air Corps were rather proud, as were pretty much all the members of the Langaran military, and with that pride came the tendency to look down upon some of the non-military members of society.
"Of course, sir."
"Good. Dismissed."
"Thank you, sir."
With wide eyes, Steve hurried over to the food line, barely noticing what he was grabbing as he filled his tray.
He had just grabbed a bottle of blue superwater when he heard his name.
"Hey, Stevie!" Bucky called from across the room, sitting across from Sam and waving like a dummy. "'Bout time you showed up!"
"Do you have to call me Stevie?" Steve grumbled as he slid into the seat next to Bucky. "Makes me sound like some singer in a band or something."
"Oh hell yeah. You know I love it when your ears turn that lovely shade of bright pink," Bucky replied through a mouthful of bread. He waggled his eyebrows, chuckling as Steve spread a generous amount of butter across a roll. "Besides, what's the big deal? Not like anyone's gonna look at you and want to mess with you anyway."
"Mmm…" Steve muttered, tossing Bucky a sharp look. He didn't especially enjoy being reminded of how scrawny he'd been as a kid, or of how many times Bucky had had to come to his aid on the school playground.
Thank the gods for military scientists and their magic formulas, or Steve might've never had the opportunity to become a Langaran test pilot.
"So, what was Phillips going on about over there?" asked Sam. "He got his panties in a wad again?"
"Oh, nah, not too bad," said Steve. "Mainly just going on about how we're all supposed to be on our best behaviour tomorrow. Apparently our new class is being taught by a civilian liaison instead of one of our own."
Bucky's eyebrows shot up. "A civilian? Really?"
"That's what Phillips said," replied Steve. "And I don't think he'd be joking about something like that."
"No, no way in hell would he joke about something like that," agreed Sam. "Wonder who it is? Gotta be someone pretty damn smart if they've managed to hurdle over all the military scientists this late in the game."
Steve gave a shrug, shoving a huge bite of pasta into his mouth.
"Phillips didn't say who it was," he said. "Only that we're supposed to behave."
"Mmm. Don't know what he's so worried about," said Bucky with a rather sly grin. "I always behave."
"Oh, sure," said Steve. "And that's why you're always running on fumes when you turn in your aircraft, right? 'Cause you're just having so much fun up there, behavin'?"
"Oh, shut up mister goody two-shoes," Bucky said as he tossed a bit of roll at Steve's face. "And hey. Where the hell were you this afternoon, anyway? Sam and I were looking for ya."
Steve's ears immediately heated up, and he ducked his head, hoping Bucky and Sam wouldn't notice.
"Oh, I just went for a drive," he said into his tray. "It was pretty nice out."
"Yeah, which is why we wanted to see if you wanted to toss the ball around a bit," said Sam. "How long's it been since you last hit a baseball, anyway?"
"Oh, I don't know," Steve said with a shrug. "Can't have been all that long though."
"Well, we'll be heading out to the field again tomorrow afternoon if you wanna come," said Bucky. "Pretty sure Carol said that she'd be available too. We could have two on two."
Steve gasped, causing him to choke on a mouthful of his superwater and prompting Bucky to pound on his back.
"Gods, Steve, it's not that big of a deal," he said once Steve could breathe again. "Don't need to be such a drama queen about it."
"Haha, very funny," Steve rasped as he wiped the tears from his eyes. His heart was thudding madly as he sucked in a slow, deep breath, trying to clear his throat.
"I actually already have plans tomorrow afternoon," he finally said. "But I'd be up for it the day after."
"Well, the weather forecast says it's s'posed to rain that day but who knows, they're only right half the time anyway," said Sam. He leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. "You okay there, Cap?"
Steve gave a nod, swallowing against the knot in his throat. "Yeah. Just went down the wrong pipe is all. No big deal."
"Yeah, and you know that's not what I meant," Sam said. "You've been… kinda off lately."
"Sam's right, Stevie," said Bucky. "What's up?"
"Nothing!" Steve said, a bit too emphatically when Sam raised an eyebrow. "We've all been a bit off lately. Losing a teammate tends to do that."
"Mmm, if you say so," Sam said suspiciously. "I still think you're acting weird but hey, what do I know, hmm?"
"Nothing," Steve said as he attempted a smile. "So don't even pretend that you do."
"Nope, I guess I don't." Sam downed the last of his superwater, banging the bottle back down onto the table as Bucky got to his feet. "Guess we'll see ya tomorrow then, Cap. Class starts at 0700, so don't be late."
That at least was enough to make Steve chuckle. He had never, in all of his years with the Air Corps, ever been late to a briefing, and there wasn't a single person on their team who didn't know it.
"I'll save you guys a seat," he said with a mock-salute.
"Not too close to the front, though, all right?" said Bucky. "Only nerds sit in the front row."
Sam rolled his eyes, yanking on Bucky's arm. "Yeah, well, c'mon, nerd. Let's leave Steve with his deep thoughts, all right?"
"Hopefully not that deep or he'll still be sitting here in the morning," said Bucky. He punched Steve on the arm, playfully, but still hard enough for Steve to grunt. "See ya."
"'Night."
As soon as the two men were out of sight Steve opened his book and quickly became engrossed, barely noticing the mess hall emptying around him until one of the members of the cleanup crew tapped him on the shoulder.
"Pardon me, sir, but we're getting ready to close down," he said. "Blackout starts in forty-five minutes."
"Oh, sure. Sorry," Steve said as he shoved the rest of his roll into his mouth, washing it down with the last of his superwater. Being caught out of quarters when the blackout hit was not something he needed to experience more than once.
"No problem, sir."
Hurrying back to his quarters, Steve readied for bed, setting his alarm for 0520, an entire hour later than usual due to the new class replacing his typical 0600 morning briefing. Ten minutes to wake up and get dressed, forty minutes for his morning run, ten minutes to shower, thirty minutes to eat breakfast, and then on to class.
He had just slid under his blankets when the announcement came, one he had heard every single night for the last ten years and yet never failed to make his heart jump.
"Ten minutes to blackout."
Would there ever come a time when such an announcement would be no longer necessary?
As optimistic as he liked to pretend he was, Steve highly doubted it. The Langaran government had been searching for a permanent solution to their country's energy problem ever since the Battle of the Continents, and yet here it was twenty-eight years later and they still couldn't seem to come up with something better than turning off everyone's lights every single night.
A part of him, the tiny part that he only dared to listen to late at night when he was alone, did wonder if maybe, just maybe, the government didn't insist on spending so much of the nation's money on constantly upgrading their military prowess, that they might come up with something that much quicker that would benefit everyone, not only the military.
Then again, Steve was a soldier, not a scientist, so what did he know? There were probably very good reasons why the government did what they did, especially since Steve knew without a doubt that not a single Langaran citizen wanted to experience something as horrible as the Battle of the Continents ever again.
But as the alarm sounded and all of the lights began to vanish across the non-essential sections of the base, Steve's thoughts suddenly shifted to young Peter, sitting alone in his hospital room with nothing but an old notebook for company. He very much hoped that Peter's father had been able to make it in to see him before the lights cut out and all civilians were supposed to be sequestered in their homes, because while he believed that he'd managed to brighten Peter's day a bit, he had a strong feeling that Peter would have far preferred the company of his own father to some random pilot, especially if the father was as loving and protective as Sharon had indicated.
Maybe the hospital would make an exception for such a sick kid, he thought.
But then again, knowing the government's inherent bias against civilians, Steve sadly doubted it.
"Aw, man! I told you no front row seats!" Bucky groaned as he stepped into the classroom, sliding into the seat next to Steve. "Why'd you gotta pick the front row?"
"You're always welcome to sit in the back," Steve answered. "But I prefer to not have to lean around people's heads when I'm trying to learn."
"Oh, 'cause no one's ever gotta lean around your head, right?" Bucky said, smirking as he tapped his datapad to life. "You seen the instructor yet?"
"Nope."
"Mmm. Well, I sure hope whoever it is is smarter than the last civvy we had. Remember that guy who they had a couple years ago? The dude who didn't know his head from his ass?"
"Which is probably why he only lasted a few days," said Steve. "Hopefully this guy will be better."
"Yeah, or this is just yet another waste of our time," said Bucky.
Steve nodded as Carol and Sam stepped into the classroom, followed by a few more pilots that Steve recognised from the other patrol shifts. He made small talk for a few minutes, smiling as one of the pilots showed off pictures of his new baby daughter until Colonel Phillips and another man entered the room and everyone immediately shot to their feet, standing at attention.
"As you were," Phillips said, frowning as everyone sat back down. He cleared his throat, gesturing to the dark-haired, bespectacled man who was standing next to him, holding a notebook and shifting on his feet. A man who Steve couldn't help but notice was not only remarkably handsome, he also seemed more than a bit familiar.
"Ladies and gentlemen, you are right now in this classroom because you are in the top one percent of all Air Corps aviators. You are the elite, the best of the best. But, as I'm certain that you're all aware of by now, our great nation cannot afford to just sit comfortably on the fact that you are the best of the best because we must always be striving to be better." Phillips grimaced, as though he'd just tasted something unpleasant. "On that note, we do, on occasion, call in certain civilians who we have found to have a particular knack for predicting the trajectory of the enemy, both technology-wise and strategy-wise, and this right here just happens to be one of those civilians." He paused then, clearing his throat as he indicated the man standing next to him. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is your instructor, Mr Anthony Stark."
Oh dear gods, Steve thought as his hand instinctively curled into a fist and his blood pressure went into a sudden freefall. He sucked in a deep breath, pointedly ignoring the look of concern Bucky was tossing at him as he stared at Anthony Stark's face, trying with all of his might not to glare so harshly that he drew Phillips' attention.
"Is there a problem, Captain Rogers?" Phillips asked, and Steve jumped, internally kicking himself for being so transparent. So much for not drawing Phillips' attention.
"No," Steve said, deliberately relaxing his shoulders and unclenching his fist. "No problem, sir."
"Good," Phillips shot back. "Then I highly suggest that you pay attention."
"Yes, sir."
"Now then. Mr Stark's qualifications more than speak for themselves, including not one, but two degrees from Langara's most prestigious university, one of which is in the field of thermodynamic astrophysics and of which he is currently the only expert on the entire planet."
Phillips continued on, waxing poetic about Anthony Stark's many achievements in an obvious attempt to impress the assembled group of Air Corps pilots, but Steve could barely listen, his jaw tightly clenched and only a single thought running through his mind.
That man's father is the reason that mine is dead.
The type of heart defect Peter has is an atrial septal defect (ASD) with partial anomalous pulmonary venous return. It is a congenital defect that while not automatically lethal, does require repair for the patient to live beyond their childhood years.
I can't wait to see what you think! Please don't hesitate to leave me a review! :)