"You gonna eat that, Cap?"
Steve blinked up at Agent Barton. The archer was eyeing his… shwarma?... with obvious interest. Steve pushed the strange plastic plate his way and resumed his weary examination of the saltshaker in front of him.
"You alright down there, Capsicle?"
Tony's eternally cheerful voice sounded from the other end of the table. Steve didn't look up. Howard Stark's only son bore an alarming resemblance to him, but he got the distinct impression that Tony wouldn't appreciate the comparison.
"I'm fine."
"'s the matter, you not like shawarma?"
Steve finally lifted his gaze to meet the other man's. He shrugged.
"It's fine."
"Wow," Tony smirked, dabbing sauce out of his goatee with a napkin. "And here I thought Captain America was supposed to be articulate. You lose your vocabulary in the ice?"
Barton snorted around a mouthful of falafel. Bruce looked like was about to do a faceplant into his own plate of food. Natasha kept her head down, expression hidden by a curtain of red hair. Thor just looked confused.
Steve couldn't be bothered to respond. Tony was exhausted, he had almost died several minutes ago, and running his mouth was clearly the way he responded to stressful situations. Dernier was the same way – every time a shell hit a bit too close, they all got an earful of jittery French for nearly an hour.
Dernier had been the same way. Past tense.
"I dunno about articulate," Barton was saying, laughter in his tone. "You all watched that USO recording in history class, right? He obviously had the lines written on the back of his shield."
"I didn't want to be there."
The quiet words got everyone's attention. They all turned to look at him, guarded curiosity on more than one face. Steve clenched his fists. They'd learned about him in history class.
"I wanted to be fighting, not dancing around in tights like some trained monkey."
Silence greeted this statement. Steve didn't even know why he was bothering to explain.
"I did learn the lines, eventually. You must have seen an early recording."
More silence. Eventually, Bruce – looking more alert now – spoke up.
"What do you think of the twenty-first century?"
Steve considered the question for a moment, then shrugged and tapped his earpiece.
"Love these little… radio things. We could have used 'em in Germany."
"Good old Stark Tech right there," Tony said around a mouthful of pita bread. "I made those back in the nineties for the military. Mesh radio has come a long way since then, but the basic hardware's the same. You woulda been using… what? Telegraphs, with morse code?"
Steve thought about explaining the heavy radio backpack Morita lugged around, complete with antenna and telephone handset. It was a far cry from the tiny device in his ear, but it wasn't a telegraph.
But Tony was smirking, and Steve found he just couldn't care.
"Something like that."
Bruce, however, felt the need to defend the technology of the 1940s.
"They had good radios back then, stop being a dick," the scientist chastised. "You've heard the recording, he was talking to Agent Carter when the plane went down."
Steve froze. The conversation continued, but he was no longer listening.
You've heard the recording.
His last conversation with Peggy. The last words he thought he would ever utter.
He was on his feet and striding for the door, vision tunneling as he struggled to breathe. Distant voices called out to him, but he ignored them. He stepped out of the ruined storefront and onto the street. Amazing how much it all looked like Europe. Building debris scattered everywhere, shattered glass and gaping holes in the buildings. Dried blood smeared on the pavement. Sirens blared all around him and a hand fell on his shoulder.
He snatched it and turned, twisting the wrist hard enough to snap bone. But it was Thor, and he was made of stronger stuff.
"Captain," the Asgardian said quietly, firmly, blue eyes full of more understanding than anyone had shown since he'd woken. "It's alright."
Steve released him. The weight of his shield on his back grounded him, kept him from trembling into pieces. He nodded.
"Yeah. Sure. I'm gonna…"
He gestured aimlessly down the street. Thor followed the motion with his eyes, then turned back to examine him. Steve could see the others still sitting at the table, slumped in their seats and too exhausted to deal with his drama. He couldn't blame them.
He turned and walked away. Thor didn't follow, and for that, he was grateful.
He helped the firefighters. There were so many people buried under the rubble; so many large objects to lift and fires to run through. He lost himself in it, thinking of nothing but the next patient, the next problem to solve. It was only when a weary-eyed medic shoved a granola bar into his hands that Steve noticed they were shaking.
Night fell and he kept working. They all kept working. By now, he knew all the medics by name. One of the police techs had figured out how to tap into his earpiece, and they called him in for particularly challenging rescues. By dawn, his suit was so torn, burned and bloody that an ambulance driver finally took pity on him and tossed him a hooded sweatshirt. He pulled it on, not sure whether to laugh or cry at the capital letters emblazoned on it, spelling BROOKLYN.
The buildings were so high. Steve didn't remember feeling so claustrophobic in Manhattan. Last time he was here, he could see the sky. Now, it peered down on him through tiny windows between skyscrapers. He had just finished pulling a terrified young woman out from under an overturned bus, and he took a moment to stare up at this new phenomenon. The twenty-first century was big.
"You alright, son?"
A deep voice sounded from his left. He turned slowly to find a middle-aged police officer examining him closely. He was almost Steve's height, a bit thick around the midsection, grey hair and mustache standing out against dark skin. Steve vaguely remembered meeting him several minutes – hours? – ago.
"… I'm fine."
The man pursed his lips.
"You don't look fine. You look like you're about to fall over."
Steve shook his head. The world spun, but that hardly mattered.
"I'm fine, really."
"When was the last time you slept?"
For some reason, Steve found this question very funny. He giggled.
"Been sleeping for seventy years, sir. Don't need any more."
The police officer crossed his arms over his chest, looking unimpressed.
"Yes, I heard about that. The White House issued a statement about you last night. A lot of us were… pretty confused when you showed up."
Steve shrugged.
"I'm confused, too. I'm supposed to be dead."
There was a moment of silence, broken only by the distant sound of sirens. Steve looked around, ready for the next task.
"When did you wake up?"
"Hmm?"
He turned back to find the police officer still staring at him. Steve had forgotten he was there.
"Oh. Um… day before yesterday? I think?"
The officer blinked at him.
"The day before yesterday."
"Yeah."
The man hesitated for a moment. Steve was tired of talking. He needed something to do, but nobody was calling for him over the radio.
"I think you need a break, son."
"Mmm, no," Steve murmured absently, shaking his head again. "No, I'm fine. This body can take a lot, believe me."
"It's not your body I'm worried about."
But Steve was already walking away. There were chunks of concrete sitting in the road. They had to be moved. He could do that.
"Son."
The police officer was following him. Why couldn't he just go away?
"I'm not your son," he snapped irritably. "I was born in 1923, I could be your grandfather."
"Father, actually," the man replied, sounding oddly amused. "But thanks for the compliment. Why don't you… hold on, I thought Captain America was born in 1918."
Steve's stomach lurched. Shit. Now he was in for it, he was such an idiot –
Then he remembered that it didn't matter anymore. What were they going to do, arrest him?
"I lied on my draft forms," he muttered, picking up a piece of concrete the size of his torso and tossing off the street. "I knew they weren't gonna take a shrimp like me for the infantry, but I thought they might train me as a codebreaker or something if I said I'd been to college."
"So… you're twenty-two."
"What year is it?"
"2011."
"I'm eighty-eight, then."
"Your time in the ice doesn't count."
"Doesn't it?!" Steve snapped, rounding on him. "It sure as hell counts to me!"
The man looked shocked by his sudden outburst. Steve turned away and shut his eyes, rubbing them with the heels of his hands.
"… sorry," he finally muttered. "It's just… been a long few days."
"I don't doubt it," the officer said quietly. "The day before yesterday, you were fighting Red Skull."
Steve turned back to look at him. He suddenly felt every one of his eighty-eight years.
"Why do you all know this stuff?" he asked wearily. "It's supposed to be classified."
"They released a lot of information to the public after the war ended," the man said, eyes full of sympathy that Steve didn't want. "There are books written about you. Comics, movies, you name it. My grandson has a collection of Captain America action figures."
Steve stared at him. He had no idea what an action figure was, but it sounded ridiculous.
"Why?" he demanded. "I'm not any more important than the other men who died in that war."
The police officer gave him the same incredulous look Fury had when he questioned his posthumous promotion.
"Are you kidding? You saved thousands of people when you crashed that plane. You gave your life to keep others safe."
"Yeah, well, turns out I didn't," Steve replied sardonically, gesturing to his very much alive body. "But there were plenty of good men who did, why don't they get a second chance?"
The officer's expression faltered. A shadow fell across his features, and he looked down. Several moments ticked by in silence. Steve shifted uncertainly on his feet. Clearly, he'd touched a nerve.
"… I'm sorry," he said quietly. "You lost someone, didn't you?"
The officer drew in a deep breath and let it out in a rush, crossing his arms as he looked back up at Steve.
"Yeah," he said grimly. "My son. Two years ago, in Afghanistan."
Steve supposed it had been naïve of him to hope that his war could be the last.
"I'm sorry," he repeated, fists clenched at his sides. The officer nodded once, blinking rapidly.
"Me too."
The two men stared at each other for a long moment. Then the officer held out a large hand.
"Name's Frank, by the way. Frank Evans."
Steve grasped his hand automatically. It was warm and calloused, solid enough for him to squeeze without fear of hurting him.
"… Steve Rogers. Nice to meet you."
"Likewise," Frank said with a nod. "Now, if you don't mind, I'd feel a whole lot better if you took a break."
He jerked his head toward an ambulance parked at the corner of Lexington and 37th. Its crew was taking a breather, the driver asleep with her head on the wheel, several medics sitting on the curb with their noses buried in those strange little devices Tony called smartphones.
"Just for a while," Frank assured him, starting to walk towards the ambulance. "I bet you could use some water, at least."
Steve hesitated, then followed. As they approached, the two medics – Maria and Raj, if he remembered correctly – looked up and smiled.
"Hey Steve," the young woman said warmly, getting to her feet. "Things are quieting down, maybe you should head home and get some sleep."
Frank shot him a rueful glance, but Steve was too distracted to acknowledge it. Nobody had called him by his name since he'd woken up. The last time he'd heard it…
Peggy… I'm gonna need a raincheck on that dance.
"Steve?"
He blinked. Maria was examining him with concerned green eyes. She was pretty, even with soot smeared across her cheeks and her hair pulled back in a bun to keep it out of her face. Not too long ago – actually, he realized, a very long time ago – he would have been stammering like an idiot in front of her, trying to pretend he knew how to talk to women.
Now, he was just exhausted.
"Sorry. Maria, right?"
She smiled, looking surprised.
"Yeah."
"Nice work, today," he said firmly. "You too, Raj."
The two medics shared an oddly amused glance with Frank.
"Thanks, Captain America," Raj quipped as he clambered to his feet. He was a lanky young Indian man wearing a turban and a tired smirk. He used Steve's title the way Bucky had – sarcastic, yet somehow fond. He gave the super soldier a not-so-subtle once over.
"You look like shit."
Steve snorted.
"Thanks."
"Anyone taken care of you?"
"I'm fine."
"Sure, you are," Maria said, shrewd gaze examining every inch of him. "That's why one side of your forehead's caved in."
"What?" Frank hissed, grabbing Steve's arm. Steve flinched away from the sudden movement, reaching one hand up to prod at the dent in his skull. It wasn't that obvious; he was surprised Maria had noticed.
"I'm fine," he repeated automatically. "It's old, it's basically healed."
"What do mean, old?" Frank demanded suspiciously. Steve shifted on his feet, gaze flickering down to the cracked pavement.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," the older man almost groaned. "That's from the crash, isn't it?"
"What crash?" Maria asked, shooting the officer a confused look.
"The crash."
There was a moment of stunned silence. Steve could feel their eyes on him. He needed to get out of here.
"It's fine, really," he muttered, and a voice in his head that sounded an awful lot like Tony reminded him that there were words in the English language other than fine. "I just – I hit my head on the console and then… you know, I – I froze and the ice kinda…"
He pantomimed something pressing into the dent in his skull, then realized he was only making things worse. Frank and the medics looked like they were going to be sick.
"S- sorry," he stammered, shaking his head and taking a step back. "That's, uh… I – I think I'm gonna…"
He gestured vaguely down the street and turned to leave.
"Steve."
He glanced back. Frank had taken a few steps towards him, one hand outstretched.
"You were going to take a break, remember?"
Steve blinked at him. Was he?
"Come on," the officer said firmly, gesturing toward the curb. "Sit down for a bit, drink some water. Just ten minutes, then you can get back to work."
Steve hesitated. Bob was eyeing him like he was a wild animal about to bolt. Maria was smiling again, but this time it was forced. Raj's mouth was set in a grim line, his gaze darting between Steve's face and his forehead.
"Honestly," Steve heard himself saying as he backed further away, "I'm fi – "
"You're not fine, Captain," Frank interrupted fiercely. "I don't think you know the definition of that – "
"Why does everyone call me captain?" Steve demanded, suddenly annoyed. "I'm a sergeant! Do you know how many ranks there are between sergeant and captain?"
An array of blank faces told him they didn't.
"A lot," he snapped. "The whole… Captain America thing was supposed to be a gag. A publicity stunt to make people feel better, get them to buy war bonds. Nobody actually called me that unless they were joking."
"Alright then, sergeant," Frank said calmly. "Would you do me a favor and sit down? You're swaying, and it's making me seasick."
Steve glared at the older man for a moment, then relented. He could probably do with a few minutes of rest. Just a few, though.
He backed up to the curb and sat down. The drop was a lot further than he was expecting, and he landed rather hard. Sometimes – especially when he was tired – he forgot that he was over six feet tall, instead of barely five.
"Here."
Frank was shoving a clear, oddly flexible bottle into his hands. Steve stared at it.
"… is this plastic?"
"Yeah. We use plastic for a lot of things, now. Too many things, honestly, but we can talk about that later. Drink."
It took Steve an embarrassingly long time to figure out how to twist the top off. By the time he had the bottle open, Maria was presenting him with several more granola bars.
"I'm alright, ma'am," he said with a tight smile. "Save them for someone else."
"We have plenty of them, Steve, there's no shortage."
He blinked at her. There was always a shortage. Of everything. Didn't she know that?
She seemed to read this line of thinking in his eyes. Her mouth tightened and she grabbed his free hand, turning it over and pressing the granola bars into his palm.
"Even if there was, I think you've earned these. You got rations in the army, didn't you?"
"… yeah. C-Rations. They're… kinda awful."
Her mouth quirked in a half smile.
"These are better. I promise."
She and Raj retreated back into their phones, leaving Steve to eat and drink under Frank's watchful eye. The older man sank down onto the curb beside him with a weary sigh, adjusting the pistol and billy club hanging from his belt so he could stretch his legs out into the road. He surveyed the ruins around them as Steve drained his bottle of water, then took a dutiful bite of granola bar. It was, in fact, much better than C-rations.
"… what a giant clusterfuck."
Steve snorted in surprise, almost choking on a second bite of granola.
"… clusterfuck?" he repeated between coughs. Frank glanced over at him and raised an amused eyebrow.
"You never heard that one?"
Steve shook his head, grinning.
"No. I'll have to tell Dugan, he loves new cusses."
He finished off his first granola bar and went to open the second. His fingers stalled on the wrapper.
He didn't even know if Dugan had survived the war.
"… he lived until 1995."
The world was going a bit blurry. Steve lost his grip on the granola bar and it fell to the ground. His hands were shaking, and Frank kept talking.
"He married a French girl and had a few kids. Kept working for the SSR until it became SHIELD, then moved to Tennessee and started a whiskey distillery."
There was something wrong with Steve's lungs. He couldn't get enough air. A hand wrapped around his wrist and he jumped, looking up to find Frank crouched on the road in front of him.
"He had a good life," the man said quietly. "And he probably heard the word clusterfuck somewhere along the way."
There was a long silence, broken only by the sound of ragged breathing. It took Steve far too long to realize that he was the one making all the noise.
"… h- how…?"
And now he couldn't even speak. God, this was embarrassing. Luckily, Frank seemed to know what he was asking.
"My grandson isn't the only Captain America fan in the family. I was obsessed with the Howling Commandos when I was a kid."
Steve just stared at the older man. Frank gazed back steadily, lips curled in a soft, sad smile. Steve drew in a long, trembling breath, finally getting enough air to choke out a few words.
"… it was supposed to me."
He poked weakly at his own chest. His cheeks were wet, his lips salty.
"I was supposed to die. Not them."
Frank's hand tightened on his wrist, but he didn't say anything. He was probably overwhelmed. It wasn't every day your childhood hero came back to life and started crying in front of you.
Steve closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing. He needed to get it together. He couldn't help people if he was a quivering wreck.
"… do you have somewhere to go, son?"
Steve opened his eyes. Frank was examining him carefully, hand still wrapped around his wrist.
"Anyone you want us to call?"
Steve hesitated. SHIELD was a mess at the moment, Fury probably had his hands full. And he didn't trust the man much anyway. Tony's penthouse had a Hulk-shaped hole in it, and the only one of the Avengers who seemed to realize that Steve might need helpwas an alien god from a distant planet.
He didn't need to answer the question. Frank seemed to have gleaned it from his expression.
"Maria," he said, turning to the young woman, "can you give us a lift to Brooklyn?"
"Of course," she replied instantly, putting down her phone and getting to her feet.
"I can't leave," Steve said. "People still need help."
"You're going to need help if you don't get some sleep," Maria pointed out. "We can take it from here, Steve."
"But – "
"Where are we dropping you?" she asked Frank, blatantly ignoring Steve's protests.
"Bed Stuy. I'm taking him home."
"I live near the Navy Yard," Steve said without thinking, shaking his head. The apartment he'd grown up in; the apartment he'd shared with Bucky after both their mothers died…
There was an awkward pause, and Frank tightened his grip on his wrist again.
"I know," he said quietly. "But the Mrs. is making her famous chicken pot pie tonight, and I think she'd appreciate another mouth to feed. You wanna spend the night at my place?"
Steve stared at him for a long moment. Frank looked back, steady and undemanding. Finally, Steve gave in.
"… y- yeah. Alright. Thank you."
The ride to Brooklyn was quiet. Steve couldn't remember the last time things had been truly quiet. Even the silence of a stakeout at a hidden Hydra base was filled with the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears. For almost two years, his life had been one long string of explosions and gunfire and shouting and fear.
Well. Except for those seventy years in the ice. That had been probably been quiet.
But the back of the ambulance was full of the exhausted silence that came with a long day of hard work. Large tires hummed against the pavement beneath them and the occasional taxi honked outside. Raj was sitting up with the driver, tapping away incessantly on his smartphone. Maria was curled up next to the bloodstained gurney, head nodding forward as she fought well-earned sleep. Frank was sitting on the side bench next to Steve, his entire right side pressed firmly against him.
Steve leaned his head against the rack of medical equipment on his other side. His shield was pressed – solid and familiar – into his back. Music drifted from the front. Big band music, like what they played at the Stork Club. Maybe things hadn't changed so much after all…
He was asleep before they left Manhattan.
Icy wind whipped past his face, freezing his cheeks and the tip of his nose. Cold steel burned under his fingers, and Bucky's eyes were terrified.
"Hold on! Come on, Buck, grab my hand! Grab – "
Metal groaned, buckled, then tore free. Bucky dropped like a stone and the train left him behind. His scream echoed through the ravine as the rail line turned, carrying Steve out of sight. He could still hear him falling… falling…
Steve woke with a shout. For a moment he flailed, caught in a tangle of sweat-soaked sheets. The room was dark and unfamiliar. He listened for the breath of his men sleeping nearby, or the whispers of other SSR agents in the communal bunks in the Underground. But there was nothing. Just the muted sound of a car passing on the street outside. He was alone.
Reality crashed in around him, and for a moment Steve couldn't breathe. The 21st century. Right. He'd been sleeping for a long time.
He vaguely remembered Frank waking him up in the ambulance. But either the officer had carried him inside, or he'd sleepwalked, because he had absolutely no recollection of getting into bed. Yet another embarrassing moment to add to the list.
For several minutes, Steve simply lay on his back, staring up at the dark ceiling. This was all a dream. Or a hallucination. It had to be. He'd crashed a plane into a sheet of ice, drowned, then froze. Nobody could survive that, not even a super soldier. He was dead. This was just one last test before God finally let him into heaven.
Or hell. He'd even take hell at this point. At least someone there would know him.
He rolled onto his side and curled into a ball. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes and he drew in a shaking breath. He was not going to lie here crying like a baby. He was going to go back to sleep, and when he woke up, everything was going to make sense again.
A sliver of light from a streetlamp outside had found its way through the curtains. It fell across the bedside table and lit up the cracked spine of an old book. Steve recognized the faded blue cover immediately.
The Hobbit.
Their favorite story. Falsworth carried a copy with him in his rucksack, and every night when they made camp, he would read a few pages to them before they fell asleep. He loved coming up with bizarre voices for all the characters, and sang Tolkien's overwrought ballads with an atonal gusto that never failed to make them laugh. They started the last chapter the night before Bucky died. For Steve, it wasn't even a week ago.
He stared at the book for a long time, unable to move. It felt… wrong. Finishing it without Buck. All the important bits were over, and the story was winding down. Bilbo was on his way home.
He wondered if the Commandos had ever finished it. He hoped they had. They all deserved a happy ending.
Another car rolled by on the street outside, and Steve turned the lamp on. He pulled the book into bed with him and ran his hands over it carefully. It was fragile and obviously well-loved, some of the pages loose and the rest dog-eared. At some point in the last seventy years – it was indeed a first edition – a child had taken a crayon to the side of it, staining the edge of every page with blue wax.
Steve thumbed his way through to the last chapter and started reading.
He woke again, this time to sunlight and the smell of bacon. His hand was resting on the open book next to him. He still hadn't made it to the end. Someone had turned the light off and left the door cracked, and he could hear clattering dishes and muted voices from the other room.
"… for taking care of him."
"No need to thank us. Poor kid was dead on his feet, I think he was sleepwalking by the time he got here."
"We didn't realize he was still out there. I thought… I dunno. I don't know what I thought."
Tony. Tony Stark was sitting in Frank Evans' kitchen.
"I thought he was with SHIELD. Fury was supposed to be looking out for him."
Bruce, too. What the hell?
"Fury sent him off to fight aliens twenty goddamn minutes after he woke up, and didn't bother to tell us that until this morning. He clearly doesn't have Cap's best interests at heart."
"I still can't believe it. They found his plane a month ago, I thought he'd at least had a few weeks."
"I don't think they knew he was still alive until they started defrosting him."
"This is so weird."
His entire team was here, talking in hushed tones about him. Steve valiantly fought the urge to pull the covers over his head and plug his ears.
"He's just a kid. Did you see him in there? I knew he was young, but god…"
"He's only twenty-two."
"… what?"
"Yeah. Apparently he lied on all his draft forms. Thought they might take him as a codebreaker if he said he'd been to college."
"… for fuck's sake."
"How did the history books miss that?"
Steve let out a weary sigh and rolled onto his back. He knew exactly how the history books had missed it. Peggy had found out and shouted his ear off. Then she'd proceeded to help him keep it a secret. Captain America or not, lying on your draft forms was a federal offense.
Erskine and Colonel Phillips had probably suspected too, now that he thought about it. Before the serum, twenty-year old Steve Rogers had actually looked about twelve. Amazing what a difference fourteen inches and a hundred and fifty pounds made.
They were still talking about him. Everyone seemed awfully upset about his age, which was… confusing. They weren't his superior officers, why did they care? Plenty of men a lot younger than he was had volunteered, fought, and died for their country. He wasn't ashamed of his age; he was just ashamed that he'd lied about it.
He sighed again, then threw the covers off. They kept calling him a kid, and it was getting annoying. Time to set them straight.
Somehow, he was wearing different clothing. He really hoped that he was too tired to remember changing, because if Frank had been the one to remove his uniform and put him in sweatpants and a t-shirt, then Steve was going to die of embarrassment. He sat up slowly, clenching his teeth to suppress a groan. He might heal fast, but that didn't keep him from aching.
He swung his feet out of bed and stood up. The world suddenly tilted and his head spun. He put out a hand to steady himself against the wall, but the lamp got in the way.
Crash.
"… shit."
The voices in the other room fell silent. Footsteps approached the door and Steve desperately tried to look like he wasn't about to fall over.
"Steve?"
The door swung open. Frank's concerned gaze swept over the disheveled super soldier and the battered lamp on the floor.
"I'm sorry," Steve said with a grimace, pushing himself off the wall as the room gradually stopped spinning. "I'll pay for it, don't worry."
"I don't care about the lamp, son. You alright?"
"Yeah, I – I'm fine, just…"
Steve stooped down to pick up the fallen lamp, and his vision blacked out. Blood rushed in his ears and for a moment everything was silent.
"… eve? Steve! Come on, kid, wake up."
Someone was tapping his cheek. Steve jerked away and opened his eyes. He was sitting on the bed again, head spinning, Tony Stark in his face and the rest of the Avengers standing behind him. Frank and a middle-aged woman who could only be his wife were hovering in the doorway, looking worried.
"Hey," Tony said quietly. "You with us?"
Steve blinked. His mouth didn't seem to be working properly.
"He hasn't had much to eat or drink the last few days," Frank informed them all, voice grim. "We managed to get some water and a granola bar into him, but that's it."
"Do you want some breakfast, sweetheart?"
Steve's gaze flickered to the woman standing beside Frank. She was short, heavyset, with pale skin and dark brown hair streaked through with white. She looked a lot like Bucky's mother.
"I'll take that as a yes," she said with a kind smile, then turned and bustled away. She acted like Bucky's mother.
"Is he injured?" Bruce asked, shrewd eyes examining Steve from over Tony's shoulder. "We didn't really check after the fight, we all just sort of…"
"Got shawarma and made fun of him," Tony said darkly, gesturing at Steve. "I've done nothing but make fun of him since he woke up. God, kid, I'm sorry. Sometimes I'm a real bastard."
"Sometimes?" Natasha quipped from the corner.
"The EMTs looked him over in the ambulance after he fell asleep," Frank said. "They didn't find anything too serious. He must heal fast."
"No shit," Clint muttered. "I saw an alien grenade blow this kid out a third story window, and he just got up and kept fighting."
"'m not a kid."
The room fell silent. Steve could feel everyone's eyes on him, but his gaze seemed to be locked permanently on the flashlight in Tony's chest. What had he called it? The ark reactor. Whatever that meant.
"I'm not a kid," he repeated wearily, shaking his head. "Other men were signing up to fight when they were seventeen. I had no right to do anything less."
There was a moment of awkward silence. Tony shifted on his knees in front of Steve.
"… you really are Captain America, aren't you?"
Steve stared at him.
"… what?"
"I always thought my dad was full of shit," Tony said, dark brown eyes examining the super soldier closely. "He made you sound like some sort of… saint."
Steve let out a huff of surprised laughter and shook his head.
"… he doesn't know me that well. None of the Commandos would call me a saint."
Another stretch of awkward silence. Now that his head had stopped spinning, Steve was beginning to feel extremely uncomfortable under all the scrutiny. Thankfully, Frank's wife chose that moment to call out from the kitchen.
"His breakfast is ready, Frank! Bring him out, will you?"
The Avengers parted in front of the off-duty police officer like the Red Sea before Moses. Even Tony crawled out of the way as Frank reached down and gently took Steve's elbow.
"Come on, son. Let's get some real food in you."
It was a bit alarming how much Steve needed the older man's support as he made his way to the kitchen. Frank's apartment was small, but homey. Floral wallpaper and squashy furniture with faded upholstery felt more familiar to Steve than anything he'd seen since waking up in this brave new world. But everything had started spinning again and Steve stumbled to a halt, pressing one hand to his forehead and screwing his eyes shut.
"… the hell is wrong with me…?"
"You spent seventy years as a human popsicle, then thawed out and helped save the world again in a matter of hours," Tony said helpfully. "I think you're allowed to feel like shit for a while."
By the time they made it to the kitchen table, Frank's wife had a plate of bacon and eggs waiting for him.
"Want some toast, honey?" she asked as he all but collapsed into a chair. He blinked up at her. He could almost hear his ma's voice – Steven Grant Rogers, where are your manners?
"I'm sorry, ma'am," he said, trying to push himself back to his feet so he could greet her properly. "I don't know your name – "
"My name is Sue," she said with a smile, shooing him back into his seat. "Do you drink coffee?"
He sat down again, feeling incredibly out of place. The others were claiming seats around the room, trying to look like they weren't listening to every word that came out of his mouth.
"… um… no. Caffeine doesn't really… do much for me, and I never liked the taste."
"Orange juice?"
"… you have orange juice?"
He loved oranges. His ma used to get him one every Christmas, but orange juice was rare and incredibly expensive. Howard had gone to check on one of his factories in Florida a few months ago and come back with several cartons of it. The Commandos had proceeded to mix it with Russian vodka they'd 'liberated' somewhere in Poland. Now that had been a night to remember, though Steve suspected he was the only one who did.
Sue was pulling an enormous bottle out of a refrigerator the size of an iron lung. It seemed like everything in the 21st century was bigger. She poured orange juice into an obscenely large glass and put it on the table in front of him. Steve just stared at it.
"I take it rationing is over."
Someone snorted, and a muffled thump indicated that whoever it was had been smacked.
"Yes, honey," Sue said matter-of-factly, buttering some toast near the sink. "You can eat as much as you want."
As much as he wanted. What a strange life he led, where such a glorious phrase could do little to assuage the real hunger in his chest. He swallowed thickly and didn't touch the orange juice. Sue put a plate full of toast down next to him and reached for his hand. Only when she grasped it tightly did Steve realize he was trembling.
"Steve," she said quietly, "I know this is hard, but you'll feel better if you eat something."
He drew in a shaking breath through his nose and let it out slowly, jaw set and gaze still fixed on the orange juice. Goddammit, he was not going to break down again.
A strange buzzing noise filled the room. Steve jerked, looking around. That was a really loud bee.
"Barton, do not answer that."
Tony was glaring at the archer, who was staring down at his smartphone with a grim expression. Oh, right. That was the sound of a 21st-century phone ringing.
"I have to," Clint said, avoiding Tony's gaze. "He's already called five times, and I'm on thin ice."
"No, stop – "
"Yes, sir," Barton said firmly, holding the phone up to his ear. "Yes, we found him. We got his location from Stark's earpiece."
Clint listened for a moment, eyes darting to Steve.
"Sir, I don't think – "
He grimaced and closed his eyes. Whatever Fury was saying, it was clearly trying his patience.
"… alright, sir," he finally said wearily. "Hold on."
He pulled the phone away from his ear and tapped it once with his thumb. Then he strode to the table and set it down in front of Steve.
"He wants to talk to you."
Steve blinked.
"Who?"
"Rogers?"
The sound of Fury's voice filled the room. Steve's shoulders tightened instinctively. He didn't trust this man, he didn't trust him –
"You there?"
Steve drew in a long, shaking breath, pulled his hand away from Sue's, and crossed his arms over his chest. He cleared his throat, swallowed, and answered.
"… yes, sir. I'm here."
"How you doin', soldier?"
Steve's eyes darted up to Frank for a moment, then returned to the phone.
"I'm fine."
There was a snort of incredulous laughter.
"Sure you are, Cap. Look, I'm sorry about the quick turnaround on this whole thing. It was bad timing, and you got screwed. But I'm gonna make it up to you."
Steve furrowed his brow.
"Um… okay…"
"I got you an apartment in Brooklyn. Fort Greene, near your old stomping grounds. You've got seventy years of back pay in a bank account waiting for you, and I just got off the phone with the President. You were awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor after you went in the ice, and he wants to give it to you in person at a ceremony next week."
There was a moment of silence, like Fury was waiting for applause. Steve just stared at Clint's phone.
"… um…" he finally stammered after it became clear that he was expected to say something. "D- do I have to, sir? Last time I went to one of those shindigs, I spilled red wine all over the First Lady."
There was a moment of incredulous silence. Then several people laughed at once, including Fury.
"Are you serious?" Clint asked, eyes crinkling with amusement.
"Yeah," Steve nodded, feeling a blush climbing his cheeks. "It was during my USO tour, I hadn't quite…" he gestured awkwardly with his hands, "got the hang of this body yet. Mrs. Roosevelt was really nice about it, but her dress was ruined."
There were a few more chuckles, and when Fury spoke again his voice was quivering with mirth.
"… alright, Cap, no more White House appearances for you. Duly noted. But you want the apartment, right?"
Steve opened his mouth, but no words came out. Thankfully, Tony chose that moment to interject.
"You're also welcome to join us at the Tower," he said quietly. "Bruce, Romanoff and Barton already chose their floors, but there are three more, so..."
"You can stay here too, son," Frank said gruffly from near the sink, where he was standing with a mug of coffee in hand. "For as long as you want."
Steve's gaze flickered uncomprehendingly between the two men. They didn't know him from Adam, yet here they were, offering up their homes to him.
"It's up to you, Rogers," Fury said over the phone. "Where do you wanna go?"
Silence fell in the apartment. Everyone was looking expectantly at him, but Steve didn't know what to say. He pulled his arms more tightly around himself, trying to suppress the shiver running down his spine.
"… Steve."
Hearing his first name come out of Fury's mouth wasn't nearly as odd as it should have been. The man's voice was quiet; patient.
"I know it seems like everything's changed. But the important bits haven't. Look around you. The world is still full of good people. People who need your help, and people who want to help you."
Steve's gaze flickered from Sue and Frank to Tony, to Natasha and Clint, to Thor in the back corner and Bruce near the door.
"… I know, sir."
"There's still a place for you here."
"… I know."
Fury was silent for a moment. Then –
"… I wish I could get you home, son," he said, and for the first time, Steve believed him. "I really do."
Steve blinked rapidly, fighting to breathe around the painful lump in his throat. He glared at the floor, fists clenched against his chest.
"… yeah," he finally choked out. "Me too."
There was a moment of uncertain silence. Then Tony stepped forward.
"He doesn't have to give you an answer right now, does he?"
"No. Take your time, Steve. Whatever you decide, we'll make it happen."
Steve nodded curtly, swiping the back of his hand across his inexplicably runny nose. His eyes were burning, and he blinked furiously.
"Okay," Tony said quietly, his finger hovering over the phone. "Thanks, Nick. We'll be in touch."
He tapped the screen and Fury was gone. Silence descended upon the kitchen, broken only by Steve's ragged breaths. He screwed his eyes shut and pressed the heels of his hands into them. He really needed to get it together, this was ridiculous.
Soft footsteps approached, and suddenly there was a firm hand on his knee, another wrapping around the back of his neck. He drew in a sharp breath and looked up to find Tony crouched in front of him, jaw clenched and expression unreadable. Steve's gaze skittered away, returning to the floor.
"… 'm sorry."
"Why are you sorry?"
Steve shook his head and closed his eyes. His hands were now twisting uncontrollably in his lap.
"… Captain America shouldn't be like this."
Silence greeted this statement. Tony's fingers tightened on the back of his neck. Then –
"To be honest, I always thought Captain America was a bit of a douchebag."
The sentence caught Steve by surprise and he let out a breathless laugh that sounded a bit hysterical even to his own ears.
"… what? What's a douchebag?"
He opened his eyes to find Tony smirking at him. This time, however, the man's gaze was kind.
"Oh, Stevie. I'm gonna have so much fun corrupting you."
"Stark," Natasha growled from the other side of the room. Tony rolled his eyes and let out an exasperated sigh.
"Anyway," he said, fixing Steve with a pointed look, "what I'm trying to say is you don't have to be Captain America. Not with us. Not at all, if you don't want to be. You've done your time, kid. You can do whatever you want. Go to college, get a girlfriend, get a life."
Steve stared at the older man. Tony's smile grew.
"I never understood my dad's obsession with you. He kept sending out crews to search for your plane until the day he died."
Steve flinched, but Tony's grip was firm.
"But I get it now," he said. "I get it. That… Captain America guy we all grew up hearing about was sort of unbelievable. But Steve Rogers…"
He trailed off, brown eyes flickering over Steve's tearstained cheeks and disheveled hair. Steve had never felt less like Captain America than he did now.
"… he's alright," Tony finally finished with a smile. "He's someone I can respect."
The two men stared at each other. For a moment, Steve was back in a crowded London pub, sitting next to his best friend.
… that little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb to run away from a fight. I'm following him.
"… anyway," Tony said again, giving the back of his neck a shake, "eat some food. Then we'll take you for a drive, show you the sights. Maybe get you some new clothes. You like Somalian food? There's a great Somalian place around here…"
Somehow, Sue Evans ended up feeding the entire Avengers team breakfast. She took to the task with happy enthusiasm, presiding over a raucous kitchen with a practiced air that told Steve she was used to a large family. Thor and Clint took to Frank immediately, challenging him to a pancake eating competition that only ended when Sue announced she was officially out of eggs. The morning crept onwards and Steve sipped his orange juice, quietly enjoying his teammates antics. Thor entertained them all with tales of Asgard, his normal voice almost as ridiculous as Falsworth's impression of Gandalf. Tony fixed the Evans' television, computer, and why fie, whatever that was. Natasha pressed herself into Steve's side and wordlessly snuck extra pieces of bacon onto his plate.
Eventually, it was time to leave. Steve helped the others clean up, then returned to the spare bedroom for his shield and tattered uniform. Frank followed him.
"You heading out with them?" he asked quietly, jerking his head back towards the others. Steve hesitated, then nodded. Frank smiled.
"They seem like good people. But there's always a place for you here, if you want it."
Steve didn't know how to respond to that. Thankfully, Frank didn't seem to mind his silence.
"Here," he said, gingerly closing the book that was still lying open on the bed. He picked it up and held it out to Steve, who just stared at it.
"… I can't take that."
"Yes, you can."
"But…" Steve shook his head, "it – it looks like a family heirloom."
"It is. I want you to have it."
"… why?"
Frank smiled and cocked his head.
"'Cause you still haven't finished it."
Steve gaped at him for a single moment, then let out a huff of disbelief and shook his head.
"… you really do know everything about the Commandos, don't you."
"Not everything."
Frank pressed the book into his hands, then reached up and gripped his shoulder tightly.
"Come see us anytime, son."
Steve swallowed thickly, then nodded.
"Thank you. For everything."
He followed Frank back into the kitchen. The Avengers were waiting patiently for him.
"Steve…"
It seemed that the Evans' were gift givers. Sue was standing in front of the door, a strange object in her hands. She held it out to him with an uncertain smile.
"Our, uh… our grandson would probably want you to have this."
Steve furrowed his brow and reached out tentatively. She placed a small, plastic figure into his palm. He stared down at it in mute shock.
It was him. Well… a strange approximation of him. The action figure – for that was the only thing it could be – was wearing his uniform and holding his shield. Blue plastic eyes stared out of a pale plastic face. Steve pushed one of the muscled arms with his thumb and it moved back and forth.
He couldn't help it. He let out a bark of unrestrained laughter. When he looked up, the others were grinning at him. He held the action figure up and smiled.
"Bucky woulda never let me hear the end of this."
"There's one of him, too," Tony said, eyes twinkling. "A few actually. Some of 'em even sing the song."
"Oh god," Steve groaned, still grinning, "that song was the worst."
More laughter greeted this statement and everyone began to file out of the apartment. Before Steve could follow, Frank pressed one last thing into his hand. A small scrap of paper.
"If you're ever in DC, give Sam Wilson a call," Frank murmured. "He was our son's wingman. He works for the VA, you should…"
He hesitated, then gripped Steve's hand tighter.
"You should talk to him. I think you two would like each other."
Steve returned the handshake firmly.
"Thank you, Frank. I will."
He gave the Evans' one last, grateful smile. Then he turned and followed his teammates. The future was waiting for him.