The following day, Steve Rogers stepped out of the Avengers Tower, out into the brightness and noise of Manhattan. He enjoyed the feeling of his sensible leather boots striking the pavement as he walked. He felt grounded by it. He kept a brisk pace to stave off the slight chill hanging in the air, despite the strong sun of late spring. He did so more of habit than anything else: his serum altered body barely noticed the cold. He made his way toward the Brooklyn bridge, taking care to pass down Eldridge st. His feet knew the tracks of the streets well, despite the enormous changes to the sky line. He neared the synagogue at the end of the road, marvelling as it came into sight.
He'd grown up watching the congregation gather there every week without fail. Watched as the numbers dwindled. He'd listened out for the melodic readings that had drifted from its doors, called by them, with not a clue what the words all meant. Not a single service was missed, even when the worshipers retreated to the lower chapel, unable to maintain the grand and beautiful space. The last time he'd seen the magnificent building, the first of its kind in his country, it had fallen deeply into disrepair. Now, it shone once more. A sign stood in front of the rich dark wood of it's doors, proclaiming it to be a museum. The windows that had gone empty, smashed through vandalism and misfortune, now all contained the intricate coloured glasswork that had captivated him in his youth.
His eyes stung with tears; this was a good change. The healing of this building and regeneration of it's people brought him a sense of calm. He thought of cycles, renewal, and the order of the natural world.
A bulk knocked into his side, startling him into stumbling over the curb before he could catch his balance. The man who'd bumped him turned and raised his middle finger as he yelled.
"You're blocking the sidewalk ya ass"
Steve cracked a smile. Some things, apparently, did not change, and that wasn't bad either.
Returning his gaze to the synagogue, it occurred to him that the whole thing could have been levelled in the recent fight with the Chitauri. The loss of such a work, such a symbol, burned against his conscience. No, he told himself. That mark lays on the aggressor, not the ones who stand up to them. If this had been lost, it wouldn't have been our fault for our resistance, and the next day I'd have been here replacing stones with the rest of them. The thought bolstered him, but a nagging doubt tugged at his mind. Or would he have been at the tower pounding away at a punching bag to avoid this world and his responsibilities to it? He shook his head to clear it. Pressing a thumb and forefinger against his eyes to try and blot out the heavy churn of thoughts and feelings. He lurched into his brisk walk again, seeking out less complicated settings for his aching heart.
As he stepped onto the Brooklyn bridge he inhaled the swampy smell of the East River. It wasn't enjoyable, but it was familiar. He felt peace in his walking. As a young man he'd hated the crush of public transport, and hadn't afforded a car of his own. He'd walked nigh on every street in this city, and learned a lot about life in doing so. Once he'd become Captain America, that changed. He had been carted around all over the nation, thrust from stage to stage to perform. Then, when he'd finally gotten his shot with the actual combat, he'd been so valuable that they'd always had the resources needed: trains and planes commandeered, all sorts of military vehicles zooming him to where they'd needed him most. He lengthened his stride, relishing the stretch in his muscles. For the first time in a long time indeed, he had nowhere to be, nothing to save, or destroy. The freedom of that was exhilarating, terrifying, and bleak.
He felt like the smallest man in the room again, waiting for his chance, afraid it might not come. Or that perhaps now, it had come and gone. He continued to put one foot in front of the other. If nothing else, it was the first and best lesson he'd learned. Keep going.
He spent the rest of the morning wandering. He visited Prospect park, smiling at each of the many dogs he saw on their way to the beach. He bought a ticket to the rose garden, taking his time to examine the sublime differences in the many varieties on show. Many were still in tight buds, their full flush to come later in the season, but enough had made their emergence for him to have plenty to appreciate. He found himself reflecting on the diversity of nature. He felt proud of what he'd fought to protect in the human race. Thinking of the multitude of peoples he had seen already that day, their unfamiliar accents and languages, their many differences, he smiled. He would make an effort to listen out, he thought, for each unknown word, and appreciate its existence. Sitting on a bench, he was soon joined by an elderly gentleman, who took his time in sitting and patiently unfolding the newspaper he carried. He was stiff with age, and likely the chill in the air too.
Steve struck up conversation politely, and they spoke briefly with each other, about the weather and the roses, before Steve asked if the man knew where in town the best cheese and pickle on rye could be found. The man grinned, showing off crooked teeth in a broad and genuine smile. Carefully, he tore off a piece of newspaper, an ad for some expensive watch, and drew a small but efficient map.
"Here" he pointed, indicating a square to represent a building that he had then circled.
"Red awning, yellow door. There ain't no name, but the guy who owns it is called Salvador. He's good"
Steve grinned back at him in return. They spoke a while longer, the man was happy to talk, but not eager, clearly content either way with conversation or his newspaper. Steve set off with his map in hand, soothed by the encounter with someone so at peace with themself.
Sitting at a rickety table in the small discreet diner, Steve had his order taken by the gentle but vibrant Salvador. The man called the order back to his wife through the kitchen service window in his thick Italian New York accent. Steve smiled as she called back in an accent that leaned heavily more Italian that yeah, she'd heard it Sal. The man responded with a hand wave and a "Bah" before setting about making Steve's coffee.
Steve picked up the newspaper left on the table, and flipped to the crossword, doing his best to avoid any headlines on his way to it. He mulled until his cappuccino arrived. He took a tentative sip, finding it was smooth and well made, with a bitterness that came from the pipes of an ancient machine, hundreds upon thousands of coffees having been extracted from its shuddering form. It had character, which the coffee at the tower, though exceptional (and surely repulsively expensive, now that he thought about it) couldn't match.
When Salvador placed the sandwich in front of him, Steve thanked the man warmly and folded his paper. Picking up the fried sandwich, he bit into it. Groaning a little louder than was proper as his mouth was flooded by melted emmental, sharp cheddar, and a mix of homemade pickles. His hand shot to his clean shaven chin as a blob of freshly made mayonnaise slipped down it. He grabbed a napkin, and wiped his mouth, before launching back into the sandwich. There was a spicy kick to it, something which he was unused to, and found he deeply enjoyed. Salvador watched him from behind the formica counter.
"Eh?' He inquired.
"Unhhhgh" Steve replied, he head tilting with a blissful expression. Sal laughed, and turned away to the kitchen window to talk with his wife. All too soon, Steve was licking his fingers. A shadow fell across his table, surprising him. He'd been so engrossed, even with his heightened senses he hadn't noticed the deli owner's approach. The man set before him a wide flat bowl filled with minestrone, and a small side plate that held a large, perfectly fried arancini. He looked up questioningly, and Salvador laughed down at him.
"From Lucia, on the house. She says you look hungry" Steve looked over to the kitchen, his eyebrows raised. The older, slightly hunched lady who stood there grinned at him, and waved a wrinkled hand.
"Eat. Go on'' She called, urging him on with a shooing gesture. Steve smiled in return, he knew damn well you didn't refuse food from a proud old woman. Not to mention that with his increased metabolism, he likely could have eaten his way through most of the menu.
"Thank you, this smells incredible" he called back, clasping his hands together. Salvador offered a grunt that sounded affirming, before taking his empty plate and shuffling back to his counter.
The soup, and the deep fried risotto were indeed sublime. Chunks of soft, marinated aubergine filled the arancini, along with earthy porcini mushrooms and mozzarella. The minestrone was rich and heavy, leaving him scraping the bowl with his spoon as he finished up.
He leaned into his seat, jerking back up a little as it creaked threateningly - sometimes he forgot he wasn't the underweight kid he'd once been. He sighed contentedly, the beautiful food having shifted something within him, as a good meal always could. Nothing ever seemed quite as pressing after eating a dish prepared with such care and skill. He ordered another coffee, and sipped it slowly, savouring his body's contentment, and the quiet bustle of the few other diners around him.
Eventually, he felt the itch to be on the move again. He got up, and paid his bill in cash, offering sincere thanks and compliments to the couple. He tried to pay for the soup and arancini, but was firmly refused. He thanked them again, and as he left, discreetly slipped a fifty in the tip jar - a repurposed tin that had contained peeled tomatoes. He'd planned to regardless of whether they'd let him pay for the extras or not. He felt he'd received much more than a meal.
In his first week after waking up Director Fury had given him an account, which he had been uncomfortable to find contained more money than he could have imagined having a use for. He made his way back to the Tower, thinking he'd made good use of his first morning on Tony's advice. He did so more slowly than he'd set off, feeling less of the urgent background thrum he'd had earlier in the day. He might, he thought to himself, try for a nap when he got back.
The rest of his week was less peaceful. He found himself missing Peggy, grieving Bucky, and worst of all, clubbing with Natasha and Clint. It had been the Widow's idea, saying he needed to let his hair down. He'd found the music grating and bizarre, and the way the people danced made him feel uncomfortable. Clint bought many rounds of shots, which soon left him stumbling, and Natasha a little louder than usual, her own biochemically altered body resisting the alcohol, but not eliminating it. Steve however, felt nothing but a mild nausea from the variety of variously painfully sour, numbingly sweet and disturbingly creamy liqueurs. He grinned awkwardly at Hawkeye when the man placed a hand on his back and told the captain in a slur that he loved him. Then, as his hand slid lower, that he was beautiful, then as the hand encroached lower yet, something about 'human urges'. The hand had then been swiftly removed by Nat's tight grip. She'd loudly called him a bad puppy, then spoke softly and quickly in Clint's ear, all that Steve had managed to catch was 'wait and see' and 'some time, Jesus'. They'd then turned to lock eyes with him in disturbing unison, all innocent smiles. The two of them perhaps spent a little too much time together.
Surprisingly, that hadn't even been the final straw. That honour had gone to a sweet young woman who struck up conversation with him at the bar. She had thick coily hair that was sectioned and tied into a number of knots tight to her scalp. Her neat white teeth flashed against her skin in the strange lights of the dark club, and her smile suited her delicately pointed chin and sharp cheekbones. Steve swallowed hard when she said hi and introduced herself out of nowhere. Her name was Tania, and Steve thought she was beautiful.
She'd ordered them both drinks, which she'd motioned to pay for, but Steve couldn't help himself, and interjected as gracefully as he could with his own cash. Natasha had explained to him that the dynamics between men and women were a lot less set now, but habit died hard. She'd spoken to him about her work: she was a visual artist, where she lived: a small shared apartment in Queens, and she earnestly asked him about himself in return. Steve felt a panic rise in him from the very start. What was he supposed to say? 'Hi, I'm Captain America, I'm kind of twenty seven, but kinda also ninety three, I Avenge for a living and I live in the giant ugly billion dollar tower in the middle of Manhattan.'
So instead, he'd made up small, credible lies and evaded. He'd watched her face fall slightly with each non committal answer, imperceptible had he not been stone cold sober. He'd cringed internally as she persevered graciously, but his self consciousness had grown with every innocent detail about herself, and every concealment about him. Once he'd begun to lie, he couldn't stop and right the track of the conversation. Besides, each basic truth about him would have lead into far more deeply personal territory than he could have explained here. He'd quickly realised he also simply didn't want to talk about himself, it was all confusing, and hurt too much, and her answers were all so easy, and right, and normal. Eventually, as his throat had begun to tighten, and his colour had risen high in his cheeks, she'd given a small shrug, saying,
"Well, nice talking to you man" She'd then lingered for a moment with a hopefulness that tore just a little at his heart, before she had set off for the floor, and melted into the crowd.
"You too"
He'd run out of the club like any other man might have run from a fight.
The next morning, he slunk into the kitchen to get himself some coffee. He hadn't slept. He didn't feel the effects as much as a normal person might, but he certainly felt the tyranny of his restless mind. He'd spiralled in frustration all night, blaming himself, counting his losses and fizzing with an anger he wasn't used to dealing with. Essentially, he was wallowing in self pity, and the weakness in that only annoyed him further. As he poured himself a mug of strong, bitter coffee, not as he normally took it, he pulled a packaged meal bar from the cupboard. Fury had supplied the group with a box load of what were essentially emergency rations for missions, each of them tailored to their individual nutritional needs. He couldn't be bothered with anything more than that.
Tony entered the room, just as he was about to leave. Tony smiled at him warmly, which made him feel guilty.
"Hey! Steve, how's it going? I just saw the Spy Sisters on their way in. Clint looked rougher than usual"
Steve grunted in return and tried to skirt his way around the other man, itching to be alone.
"Nat said you ghosted on them. Is everything ok?"
"Fine" Steve mumbled gruffly, avoiding Tony's gaze, "Thanks" He strode out of the kitchen, and back to his room, shoulders hunched and coffee held close to his chest.
Tony was left to stare at the spot the man had been, his stomach dropping and heart deflated.
After another couple of days holed up in his room, the Captain got restless. There was nowhere he wanted to go, but he felt overrun with cabin fever. He knew if he spent another day with the punching bags, Tony might seek him out again. Steve wanted nothing more than to avoid inflicting his foul mood on the awkward man who was making such a clear effort to be kind to him. He got up, put on the same clothes he'd worn the day before and slipped out of the tower with a stealth that would have made the Widow proud. He set off walking, fists thrust into the pockets of his soft brown leather jacket, a gift from Natasha. It was a still day, with a heavy pressure in the air that desperately needed a storm to break it. With no breeze, the traffic smog collected thickly and burned his nose. He beat a steady rhythm into the pavement, eyes down, paying more attention to his body than the street signs. He'd reached a point of weary mental frustration where the endless thoughts and regrets no longer circled. He just felt blank. He was worn thin through his own emotional repetitions.
He bought a coffee from a window booth somewhere, he didn't know where, and drank it as he walked, barely noticing that it was both burnt and watery. He dumped it before it was finished, bored with the task of sipping.
A flash of colour caught his eye as he strode past, drawing him from his stupor. It was a red awning, sheltering a bright, neatly painted yellow door. He stood up straighter, and peered round the edge of the large front window to see Lucia and Salvador resting against the counter, each with a cup cradled in their hands. Lucia laughed soundlessly, her head thrown back as her husband grinned down at her. Steve's chest tightened as she leant to rest her head against his shoulder. Salvador tilted until he could press his lips into her braided grey hair, and Steve pulled back from the window. He hesitated. He badly wanted to go in. His stomach growled. He'd set off without even grabbing one of those bland tasteless bars he'd spent the last couple of days living on. The thought of Lucia's masterful cooking tugged fiercely at his heart. His fingers raised toward the door, and fell again. He couldn't. The couple were too complete, too innocent. The thought of the man's brusque and kindly manner, familiar in a way that superseded manners, and the woman's incisive generosity overwhelmed him. They didn't lack whatever it is that he seemed to lack. They might see too much, and he might ruin their gentleness with his war bloodied hands and broken heart. Spinning on his heel, he set off again, shaking his head to clear it of it's call to others.