Thank you so much for the kind feedback on the last chapter, especially to the guest reviewers whom I cannot thank via PM. I'm so glad that this story brings you some joy!
I'm kind of anxious about posting Steve's chapter, because he's my favourite and I really do want to produce a good story.
Enjoy!
Steve's cold all the time.
He permanently wears a jacket and two thermal vests, but it doesn't help. He has to stop himself from shivering in the briefing room, even though it's summer and the rest of the Avengers complain to Coulson about the aircon not working properly. He piles duvets on his bed at night, and is warm for a while, but he still inevitably wakes up shivering at oh dark hundred in the morning.
He mentions something at his routine medical, and the nurse tells him to take his temperature at regular intervals over a few days.
"Your temp is completely normal, Captain Am...Captain Rogers," she says when he sees her again. "A little warm actually, but according to your file that's normal because of the serum. You don't need to worry."
But still, Steve feels cold.
Hitting boxing bags until they give up and splatter sand over the gym floor helps – he'd figured that out a few days after waking up. Fighting also helps. The glow of a battle stays with him for an hour or so after each mission. But then it's gone and Steve is cold again.
Hugs help too – the rough hugs that Thor and Clint and Bruce and sometimes even Natasha or Tony draws him into. But they are few and far between, and Steve has to pretend that he doesn't want to burrow his face into their shirts and never let go until he's finally warm again. Because he's Captain America, and Cap just doesn't do that. He's the Man with the Plan, the eternal optimist, the guy who everyone looks to for strength when the going gets tough.
And while Steve knows the difference between Steve Rogers and Captain America perfectly well, he is also aware of the fact that the Avengers just doesn't know how to make that differentiation.
They think that it's perfectly normal that he's the only member of the team that hasn't fallen foul of Coulson yet. Bruce hasn't either, of course, but he doesn't really count because Steve thinks that even Coulson would be hard-pressed to paddle the Hulk. They think it's perfectly normal – because Captain America, after all, is the goodiest of all two-shoes. The straitest-laced of all strait-laced men to ever walk the planet. He's practically, as Tony explains one evening while they're eating stew and playing poker, the embodiment of the apple-pie your mama used to make, mixed with a white picket fence and with a touch of walking rule-book just for fun.
What they don't seem to get is that, yes, Captain America is all of the abovementioned things. But Steve Rogers? Steve Rogers is a little shit.
Bucky, had he lived, could have probably told them about the stubborn streak that could put a mule to shame. His sheer cussedness used to be too large for his sickly body to comfortably hold, as the many bruises and black eyes testified. He could have told him about the frankly worrying disregard Steve had for throwing himself in the line of fire, even back when he didn't have a nearly indestructible body to take the brunt of his self-sacrificing impulses.
Peggy could have told them, had she remembered him still, about the number of qualms he had about being insubordinate when he felt the occasion to. That number being a round bloody nil. She could have told them about the anxiety and the guilt, and she would have seen the fear and the anger and the desperate loneliness simmering quietly beneath the frozen surface. She could have asked them why in the fuck nobody had realised that Captain America might have come out of the ice but Steve Rogers was still slowly freezing to death.
But nobody is there to tell them, and Steve has gotten too good at being Cap and nobody notices.
And Steve is still cold, and it won't go away, and he's really not sure how long he'll be able to take it.
He runs into speeding traffic one day, completely disregarding Coulson's orders not to do it. It's all in a good cause, of course, and he manages to save the kid that the villain of the week has snatched as a hostage. But he's this close to being flattened by an eighteen-wheeler before Thor manages to whip him out of harm's way.
Coulson just says "maybe we should discuss a better contingency for time-sensitive hostage situations next time" and dismisses the lot of them without as much as a frown in Steve's direction.
The next week he almost gets blown up, the week after that he jumps in front of a machine gun and takes a hail of bullets to the stomach. Thanks to the Stark-reinforced suit it does no more than bruise badly. He goes on, two days later, to make an attempt at stopping a runaway bus with his bare hands.
Coulson says something to the effect of "be more careful next time, pal" and Steve realises that he, too, doesn't know the difference between Cap and Steve.
And then, on a freezing cold day in the middle of February, Steve almost manages to die.
They're fighting what may, at one time, have been a man. Teeth like razors, strong as a badger and with some sort of webbed mutation on his skin that makes Natasha's bullets glance off him like water on a duck's back. Even more endearingly, he has the nasty habit of blowing things up for fun. While Iron Man and Thor are in the air trying to evacuate as many people as possible from the building Cutlass has just blown to hell, Steve, Nat and Clint does their best to keep the villain from continuing his rampage through the city. Bruce is away on a separate assignment, something personal.
It goes so far south it's basically Antarctica.
He throws Clint against a wall, almost chews through Natasha's carotid artery and goes on his merry way while Steve is still trying to figure out if Clint is dead or not and whether Natasha will bleed to death sooner rather than later.
"I've got him," Natasha says, blood streaking across her throat. "I've got Hawkeye, Captain. Go get that bastard."
"Do not follow him," Coulson vetoes in their comms. "Wait for backup, Captain America."
"You got him?" Steve asks Natasha. At her nod of confirmation, he grabs his shield and sprints, to where he can see the Cutlass's ratty leather jacket disappearing around the corner.
"Stand down," Coulson says. "That's an order, Cap."
"With all due respect, sir," Steve barks back. "No fucking way."
He gets his man, because that's what Captain America does. He gets his man, but he almost bleeds to death and breaks an arm and cracks his skull and there's a few hours where the medical team isn't exactly sure whether he's going to wake up again.
He wakes up, finally, to a splitting headache and six concerned and troubled faces in the familiar blue-white glow of medbay. And Clint, with a massive bandage around his head, throwing his arms around Steve's neck and saying in a voice slurred by pain-killers: "Thought you were a goner for sure, Steve."
This time, Coulson definitely doesn't just say "be more careful next time, pal". The debriefing happens a week or so later when Natasha and Clint are still technically out of action, but Steve is already on his feet and back to destroying boxing bags in the gym every night. The furious movement pulls at the tight pink scars on his neck and chest and the one where they had to cut his arm to set the break, but at least it keeps him from being cold for a little while.
"You disobeyed a direct order, Captain Rogers," Coulson says, in the deathly quiet voice Steve knows he reserves for these types of occasions. "And you swore at me in a most unprofessional manner."
"Not the first time, Agent," Steve drawls.
He can see the pure shock registering on Stark's face, across from him, and it gives him a small amount of pleasure.
"Pardon me?" Coulson asks, surprise in his voice as well.
"I said it wasn't really the first time," Steve says. "Likely won't be the last. Why are you getting your drawers in a twist now?"
Clint's mouth is actually hanging open, and Thor looks from him to Coulson and back like a confused puppy. Natasha is eyeing him intently, however, and Steve idly wonders if she's planning his murder.
"I'm afraid we will have to continue this conversation in private," Coulson says. "Dismissed, Avengers. Rogers, you stay behind."
Steve stands up when it's just him and Coulson in the room, mostly because Coulson is walking over to him and he doesn't want the man to tower over him. He halts a few steps from Coulson, ramrod straight, his eyes on the wall a few centimetres left of Coulson's head.
"I'm afraid I can't let this go unanswered," Coulson says.
"You could," Steve says. "But you probably won't."
He knows he's pushing, but Coulson merely looks the tiniest bit apologetic and Steve wants to punch him in the mouth. Maybe that will finally rile the man up.
"I know you're used to being in command, Cap, but for this team to work you need to take your orders from me. I can see things from the air that you can't from the ground."
"Yessir," Steve bites out.
"Well," Coulson says. "You know how I handle discipline. Bend over the table please."
Steve bends. The table is cold, and he's cold and even though the fire Coulson ignites on his backside isn't, it doesn't reach the icy block of indifference that used to be his heart. He glares numbly at the brown wood in front of him until Coulson stops. Steve struggles to his feet, his jaw cramping from clenching it so hard.
"Are we done here?" he asks, not bothering to keep the coldness from his voice.
Coulson studies him a moment, seems to want to say something, and then just nods.
"Yes, you're free to go, Cap."
Steve marches out of the conference room, only barely managing to keep from slamming the door behind him. In the hallway he pauses only for a minute, sucking in air, trying to keep his hands from curling into fists. His ass burns. Really, honestly burns beneath his uniform pants. But he's too angry, too frustrated, too hopeless, to let himself feel the pain.
He gathers himself, straightens his shoulders, and walks away.
Two days later they're fighting robots in the Upper East Side. Steve has no idea where they came from or what they want or why they're even in the city apparently trying to kill as many people as they can. He doesn't really care either. It's a fight, and that's enough.
"There's a group of civilians trapped on the third floor of the blue apartment building," Coulson says over the comms. "Anybody close?"
Steve beheads a robot with a slam of his shield and taps his ear.
"Yeah, I got it."
He jogs through the foyer. It's filled with smoke and dust, where a previous wave of robots had blasted a whole in the far wall. He takes the stairs three at a time.
"Cap," Coulson says. "I don't have eyes inside the building and there's no way of knowing what might be waiting for you there. Stand down until Iron Man can do a scan."
"I'm three out," Stark says, slightly breathless. There's a wooshing sound and the crunch of metal hitting metal. "Wooh! Take that, butthead." His mic cuts out again.
On the third floor a mess of cement and crushed ceiling and beams brings Steve to halt. Dimly, between the jagged edges of two ceiling beams, he sees the green flash of a robot's blasters. Someone screams.
"There's hostiles in there with them," he says into his comm. "I'm going in."
"Negative, Captain," Coulson says. "Wait for Iron Man."
Steve ignores him, scanning the debris in front of him. He picks out the weakest spot in the rubble, where he would be able to break through without compromising the stability of the rest of the heap.
"Captain?" Coulson says. "Do you hear me?"
"Nope," Steve says.
He backs up a few steps, and then explodes into a run, hurling himself at the point he has chosen. He hits it shield first, feels the jarring shift and then he's sliding down a heap of rubble on the other side. A sharp block of cement digs into his stomach. Something warns him, and he curls away just in time to miss the blast aimed at his head. They're everywhere, green mechanical eyes blinking at him from the ceiling and the walls and all the way down the long dim corridor. He can't see any civilians, and he wonders vaguely if it was a trap.
"What in God's name do you think you're doing?" Coulson thunders in his ear.
Steve taps his ear, muting Coulson, and wades into the fight with grim satisfaction.
Thanks to Stark, who blasts his way into the building at the last minute, Steve survives with only a flesh-wound to his upper arm and a few bruises on his face and chest.
They clean it in medbay, but the serum is already doing it's work and it isn't necessary to put in stitches. Steve is glad of that, because he's torn stiches while beating up a boxing bag before and it had been a lot less than fun.
Debriefing has been scheduled for early the next morning, since it's already pretty late.
Back on his floor at the tower Steve showers quickly, changing into workout shorts and a soft t-shirt. His hand wraps are hanging out by the large windows in the living room, where he'd left them to dry out after his session last night. He's rolling them neatly to take along to the gym a few floors above his own, when the elevator bell dings twice, indicating that someone is on their way to his floor.
"Who's that?" he asks Jarvis.
"Agent Coulson, captain Rogers."
Steve groans.
"Tell him I'm not here."
"He already asked me if you were in, sir, and I'm afraid that I've already told him that you are."
"Damn it."
"Would you like me to tell him that you would prefer not to see him?"
"No, it's fine. Let him in."
Coulson is still in his suit and tie when the elevator doors open. He strides into the middle of Steve's living room, looking somehow taller than Steve remembers.
"Coulson," he says, standing up.
"Steve," Coulson says evenly. The Look he levels at Steve is one that Steve has seen before, although perhaps not directed at him.
"Was there something you wanted?"
"We need to talk. Have a seat."
It's slightly ridiculous, being offered a seat in his own damn living room, and Steve gives him a irritated glare.
"I'm fine where I am."
"Steven Grant," Coulson says very, very quietly. "Sit down right now."
He can't remember the last time somebody middle-named him like that, probably not since the 1940's. It brings with it the involuntary epiphany, like it always did back then, that he was in deep, deep trouble. His legs obey almost of their own accord, and he finds himself sitting down on the nearest chair, not able to take his eyes off Coulson.
"So, you can listen," Coulson says grimly.
Steve doesn't know what to answer to that, because of course he can listen he just doesn't sometimes, but somehow it doesn't feel like the correct moment to say that. Not with Coulson looking at him like that.
Coulson moves closer to him, steps around the heavy coffee table Stark insisted that Steve needed, and sits down on the edge of it.
"I'm sorry," he says then, surprising Steve. "I have not been treating you fairly. I've been treating you like you're Captain America, the guy that I grew up mythologising and looking up to. But you're not just him, are you? You're Steve Rogers. The guy who woke up in a strange new world and isn't quite sure which way is up and which is down. You're a man, just like any other man, beneath the cowl. And people tend to forget that. I'm sorry that I've been one of those people. I should have brought you up short the very first time you ran into traffic. I shouldn't have let you storm off the other day, and I certainly shouldn't have let you into the field today, knowing that you were in no frame of mind to follow orders and stay safe. That's on me, kid, and I truly am sorry."
Steve opens his mouth, maybe to say that it's okay and lots of people make that mistake and it isn't Coulson's fault that he can't be Captain America all the time. But Coulson holds up his hand, silencing him.
"That part's on me. But putting your life in danger? And all the disrespect and disobedience and insubordination? That's on you, Steven, and I'm going to make sure that it ends right here and right now."
Steve's heart is beating in his throat, and something heavy is twisting in his stomach. But he believes Coulson, believes that he is going to help him stop something that he can't seem to stop himself and the relief of it spreads a small measure of warmth through his chest.
Coulson stands and then sits down again, on the couch this time. For a few moments, Steve can't figure out what on earth he is on about, but then it dawns on him. He feels the tips of his ears growing warm.
"Sir, I – "
"Come on," Coulson says firmly, gesturing at his lap. "Over you go."
"But, sir," Steve's pretty sure that his face is as red as that part of his shield at this point. "I'm pretty heavy..."
"I've handled heavier," Coulson says, not unkindly. "Take of your shorts. You can leave the underwear, if you have any."
Steve gets up and moves over to stand next to him, but falters again, giving Coulson a pleading look.
"I could just bend over the back of the couch..."
"No, you can't." Coulson narrows his eyes slightly. "Do not make me ask you again, Steven. Get those shorts down and get over my knee."
Steve shoves them down to his knees, thankful that he'd actually decided to wear briefs under them for a change. He feels like he's all hands and feet when he clambers down over Coulson's lap, stretching himself out on the couch. Coulson shifts him forward slightly, and then plants an arm across Steve's back. It's warm, and very firm.
"Would you like to tell me what you did wrong today?"
Almost bare and entirely vulnerable across the lap of a man who has famously reduced an actual Norse god to tears with just his right hand, Steve finds himself answering promptly.
"I disobeyed orders, acted in a manner unbecoming to my duties and put myself in danger, sir."
"And shutting down your comm, what would you call that?"
"Disrespect, sir," Steve says softly. "And breaking off communication during a crucial part of an operation."
"Very well," Coulson says. "We'll start there."
Steve isn't sure if Coulson had been holding back, last time in the conference room, or if he was just too worked up to recognise what a mean swing the man packs. But it's abundantly clear, from the very first searing swat that Coulson isn't playing around. He starts in fast and hard, peppering Steve's butt with smacks that threaten to break his resolve to be quiet within the first few rounds.
He forces himself to stay relaxed over Coulson's lap, burrowing his head into his arms and the sofa's soft upholstery. Both because his nose feels suddenly cold, and because he has to somehow smother the stray gasp that slips from his mouth.
But the heat builds and builds, until it feels like his skin must be burning to a crisp back there and he tries to twist away from the hand mercilessly cracking down on him. It is to no avail. Coulson only tightens his grip around Steve's waist, shifting his legs slightly and starts in on his sit spots.
It's awful and horrible and once the first pained yelp escapes Steve somehow can't manage to clamp his lips shut again.
"Ow! Ow! I'm sorry!"
"You better be," Coulson says grimly.
He gives Steve's thighs a few hard whacks and then pauses, resting his hand lightly on Steve's burning butt.
Steve tries to breathe deeply, but it doesn't help much to battle the throb in his backside.
"And the past few weeks?" Coulson asks. "The hostage and the kid with the bomb and jumping in front of a bloody machine gun? Not mention the fact that you seem to think you can stop a speeding bus by walking in front of it. What in heaven's name where you thinking, Steven?"
"I don't know," Steve mumbles.
"Pardon?" There's a dangerous note in Coulson's voice, but Steve doesn't recognise it in time.
"I don't know."
The last word turns to a yelp as Coulson brings down a flurry of searing whacks on his butt.
"I'm sorry!" Steve gasps. "I'm sorry, I really don't know."
"Not good enough," Coulson says grimly. "Why, Steven? Why did you put yourself in unnecessary danger not once, not twice but six times in the past few weeks? Is it that you want to die?"
He hooks his thumbs in the waistband of Steve's briefs, and before Steve can protest they are whisked down to his knees. Coulson starts back up immediately, his palm smacking down on Steve's butt over and over again and Steve finds himself growing frantic. It hurts too much and Coulson is right here and his arm is warm on Steve's back and he knows he's going to do something terrible like burst into tears if it doesn't end.
It doesn't and Steve does.
The first sob hitches in his chest, the tears that has been gathering in his lower eyelids spill out and he's crying over Coulson's lap like he doesn't remember crying since he came out of the ice.
"I don't think that you want to die," Coulson says over his ragged sobs. His hand is circling between Steve's shoulders gently. "But I don't think you're entirely sure that you want to live either. I can't even begin to know what it would be like to go down in 1945 and wake up here. To lose everything you know, everything you love, everyone that knows you and loves you. But I do know that there are people in this century would love to know you if you'd let them. We don't need you to be Captain America, kid, we don't need you to be perfect. We just want you to want to live again."
"I don't know if I can," Steve rasps rather incoherently. "I can't, I don't know if I can stop – I'm so sorry."
"That's okay," Coulson says gently. "I'm here, kid, I'm going to help you. You're not self-destructing and you are going to stop, because if you don't I will make this spanking seem like a fun little walk in the park. Are we clear?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Now, let's draw a line under this, shall we?"
There is nothing to do but to sob into the cushions, as Coulson tips him forward and plants a series of harsh swats to his thighs and undercurve.
He realises that it is finished when Coulson gently draws up his briefs over his butt. It seems to trap the heat against his skin, but that's only a small extra discomfort compared with the fire already raging there.
Steve shifts, and Coulson places a calming hand on his shoulder. "It's okay, it's okay, you can stay here if you want."
But Steve rolls himself off of Coulson's lap, landing somewhat awkwardly on his knees. He turns, before he can think too much on it, and buries himself against Coulson's chest. Strong arms close around him immediately.
"You're alright," Coulson says into his hair. "You're alright."
And Steve is warm - gloriously, exquisitely warm.
Thank you so much for reading! Please do put any comments or critiques into a review. It really helps and encourages me!
There isn't a short bit at the end of the chapter where Steve 'makes up' with the team - like there was for each of the others. Not to worry, the final little chapter will mostly be about that!
Next up: Steve has a nasty encounter with soap.
Tremulous xx