Sunday Night
Steve slips through the front doors and disappears up the steps. All 15 of the other kids are crowded into one of the two large rooms, staying as quiet as possible.
Steve sighs, looking at them with fondness as they play quietly.
"Hey guys." He says, catching their attention, "brought something for you." He holds up the bag of muffins and their faces light up. He splits them in half, ensuring everyone gets at least one half before distributing the last bits to those he knows need extra food. When he shoves the last full muffin into Pietro's hands, the silver haired boy (a genetic trait in their family) tries to protest but Steve gives him a stern look. "No arguments, Pietro." Then he smiles and turns to Peter, handing him the last half muffin.
"You need to eat one too, Steve." The young boy says, his brown eyes looking up at him.
Steve smiles and pushes the muffin at him. "I had plenty to eat this afternoon. You guys deserve a treat after being so well-behaved this afternoon."
They stay quiet, playing and talking, before 8 of the kids go back to their room to sleep.
For the first time in days, Steve sleeps with a smile on his face.
—-
Monday
Steve nods in agreement to hang out tomorrow at Milo's for some extra study time. He and Bucky take the same train back, but when they get to the platform, Steve waves goodbye, taking the long away around to his home to avoid Bucky discovering where he lives.
He remembers the anxiety he'd felt as Bucky had led him closer and closer to his house only to discover that Bucky's home was behind the building that he lives in. Ever since then, he'd been extra careful to not be seen.
But this time he hops quickly up the steps and slips inside the front door. He's hoping to get some work done before he needs to start watching the kids.
He closes the door quietly behind him and turns to walk up the stairs, only to find Mr. and Mrs. Schmidt standing there, waiting for him, with very deadly stares.
"Um, " he asks, his eyes glancing around. He can't hear the other kids. "Is everything okay?"
Mr. Schmidt's face turns deep red, fury pulling his skin tight over his already incredibly sharp facial structure.
"How dare you." Mrs. Schmidt hisses, taking a threatening step forward. "We feed you, we clothe you, we give you money to take your irresponsible self to summer school. We let you live under this roof and this is how you repay us?"
Steve takes a step back, his back hitting the door. "Wh-what?"
"Don't play the simpleton. Rogers." Mr. Schmidt growls. "You know how embarrassing it is to receive a call from a dear and trusted friend that you are complaining about your home life at school?"
"What!" Steve exclaims, "No! I didn't- I would—"
"You have before!" Mrs. Schmidt cuts him off. "You've complained before!"
Desperation enters Steve's voice. "No, I didn't this time— I promise! I wouldn't—"
"Don't lie!" She shouts. He winces as she makes the motion to slap him but she keeps her hand a half foot away.
He hears a tiny gasp, the Schmidt's don't hear it, but his eyes are drawn up to the landing where he sees little eyes peeking through the banisters. Peter. He swallows thickly.
"I'm not lying, I promise. I didn't talk to anyone about home! I'm very grateful for everything you both do for me." He hates his words. Wants to shout and fight and stand up for himself. But standing up for himself means getting the little ones hurt. And nothing is worth that to Steve. So he bites his tongue and he lies. "Whoever called from the school must have been mistaken."
Their eyes narrow at him. "So a Mr. Banner doesn't know what he's talking about?"
Steve's eyes brows tilt in confusion before widening in surprise, "I've only talked to him like once!—"
The slap is not faked this time. His body reels back from the force and he feels his head knock against the doorframe making stars float in front of his eyes.
He feels himself sliding towards the ground before being hauled up by his collar. "You ungrateful little brat!" Mrs. Schmidt yells, hauling him over towards the basement door. He feels himself scramble his feet, pushing against the floorboards. It's a natural reaction, but it's the wrong one to make against her. Her eyes widen and her grip tightens on his shirt, pulling him up off the floor and onto his tippy toes. "You've been a pain in my backside for more than 5 years! You're a sick runt that no one wants! Even your ma died to get away from you!"
The words leave Steve breathless. He knows it's not true. It can't be true. But having heard some variation of it for the past 5 years makes him furious.
"She loved me." He rasps, determination in his eyes as he tries to pry her fingers off his shirt. She scoffs, dragging him towards the kitchen. "She loved me." He repeats more desperation this time as she pulls him into the kitchen. His eyes widen and he starts to truly fight as she hauls him over to the stove and flip the electric burner on to high power..
"You have a fiery spirit." She hisses, her voice deadly, "let's see how fiery you really can be." She grasps his arm, and he yanks it back, fear flashing through him, but she's strong and his joints protest as she yanks his forearm down onto the hot burner, holding it there until he lets out a scream of pain. She lets go and he clutches his arm to his chest, the skin already red and puckering.
"If you make this mistake again, it won't just be you learning this lesson!" She threatens, yanking his other arm and pulling him back out towards the entryway.
Steve's desperately trying to keep his head. The pain in his arm is shocking, making his head fuzzy. He feels himself be yanked away and a rush of cool musty air has his throat reacting.
His body is in free fall for a second before his shoulder and side make impact with the steps. He tumbles down them, groaning as his back, bones, and head protest at the impacts.
He lands in a heap at the bottom of the basement stairs. Light from above is still visible. "Maybe some time down here will help to cool your head." She slams the doors and he hears it lock.
He should move. The deep breath he tries to take leaves him in a coughing fit from the dust he's landed in. Okay, maybe he'll lay there for just a moment.
The pain of his arm is now mottled with the pain in his shoulder, he tries to move it and groans. His back twinges and he shifts, straightening out his spine. A sharp pain has his unburned arm reaching up and feeling the back of his skull. His fingers come away red and he lets out a long sigh. The last thing he remembers thinking before passing out is that no one is up there to protect the other kids.
—
Tuesday
Steve's usually the last one to the cafeteria. His innate need to clean other people's incorrectly cleaned brushes always has him running late. But as 5 minutes— 10 minutes— then 20 pass, the group starts to shift in their seats.
"Did anyone see him in the hallways today?"
No.
Natasha looks up to see the TA standing off to the side staring at the empty seat where Steve usually sits. The look of concern and distress has something acidic coiling in her stomach.
"I'm going to go to his classroom." She bolts from her seat and she hears the rest follow. Curious eyes follow their group as they exit quickly but they ignore it, bursting out into the hallway and taking the stairs two at a time. The art teacher is walking into her office.
"Excuse me?" Natasha calls.
"Yes?"
"Was Steve Rogers in class today?"
She looks at them and tilts her head, "no, he wasn't." Her voice is gentle but firm, "if you see him before I do, please inform Mr. Rogers that missing class is rather frowned upon. We have such a short amount of time in this program, missing even one class can be detrimental!" She smiles at them, not noticing their tense postures as she shuffles through her keys. They nod numbly and take off back down the stairs.
They stop at the cafeteria doors. "Ooookay." Tony huffs, holding his hands out. "We all need to take a chill pill. There are plenty of normal, nondramatic reasons for Steve to not be here." His tone belies his words, the worry in his tone is clear.
"Do we know where he lives? Can we check on him?" Natasha asks.
No one knows.
"Maybe we can ask the front office?" Bucky offers weakly, "maybe he called in sick?"
At that moment the cafeteria doors open and the TA steps out. He looks at them and his face flits through a few emotions: concern, uncertainty, distress.
He steps over to them, trying to appear calm. "I was just wondering if any of you had seen Steve today or had contact with him? Or maybe might know why he is absent?"
Clint's face turns a shade grayer as Natasha speaks, "No… We don't know. We were hoping the school knew…"
The look that flashes over Bruce's face has them on edge, but it's tucked away before they can blink and he smiles a weak smile at them, "I'm sure it's fine. Thanks anyways." He turns on his heels and disappears in the direction of his office.
The silence in the hallway echoes around them.
—
Steve comes too, his eyes blinking slowly. He groans, his head pounding and his body aching. The burn on his arm throbs, stinging and the skin is red, puckered, and shiny.
Rolling onto his stomach, Steve crawls to the steps, using the ledge to haul himself into a seated position. His lungs wheeze and he tries to take shallow breaths to try not to let the dust and damp air in. He cranes his head, looking at the door. He knows it's still locked. Feeling the dried blood on the back of his head crumbles off onto his fingertips.
It takes everything in him to haul himself to his feet. Faltering, achy steps draw him deeper into the basement. Past old furniture and junk thrown down here long ago and forgotten.
He reaches the back wall and reaches out to use it to support himself. Stumbling towards the corner and ducking under a huge wooden desk that has been there since he can remember. He tucks himself underneath between the side cabinets and curls up on the dusty blanket that's there. He'd brought it down years ago, when Mrs. Schmidt would toss him down here at random when he'd fight her. His hand snakes under the space between the floor and bottom of the desk. He feels it immediately and he drags it out and clutches it to his chest, a ziploc bag, gallon sized, with a water bottle, and a small unopened bag of pretzels. The pretzels he'd been given on the last day of 8th grade. He'd ferreted it away knowing that they'd keep for a while down here just in case.
His hands are shaky as they unscrew the cap but he manages and gulps ⅓ down. He wants more but he doesn't know how long he'll be down there, so he needs to pace himself. He opens the pretzels and only eats 3. It helps a little.
Weariness falls over him again and he tries to ignore the stinging, throbbing pain of his burnt arm. He already knows it will scar, and he's more mad about that because it means never being able to wear short sleeves without questions. If the Schmidt's didn't want people sniffing around them, then they shouldn't leave traces of their abuse.
A deep sadness crosses over his chest at that thought. If they're up there hurting the little ones… he'll… He clutches the pretzel bag, it crinkles under his fingers. He doesn't know what he can do. Everything he's tried has ended in pain for someone. Helplessness overwhelms him and he shuts his eyes, curling further into himself, the knees of his jeans soaking up a few of his tears.
—
"You have to tell us, please."
The office lady looks at them, not annoyed, but frustration clear on her face. "Kids are out of school for a million reasons, dears. His home information is private and it can't be shared with other students!"
Tony groans in frustration and stalks out. Bucky stands next to Natasha, looking helplessly at the lady behind the desk while Clint stands very still, staring out the window.
"But… if he was sick or something wouldn't his family or guardians have called?" Bucky tries, leaning over the desk.
"Not necessarily." She responds calmly but firmly, "sometimes they send the note with the student when they return. But also, this isn't school in a required sense. He's perfectly allowed to skip. Have a good day."
The dismissal clear, they file out back into the hallway where the lunch period is just getting started. After Steve didn't show up yesterday, they'd decided they didn't have much choice but to hope he would show up on Wednesday.
But it's lunch on Wednesday and they still haven't seen him. Bucky's turning towards them, his features darkening. "I swear, if he's getting hurt—" He frowns, his right hand clenching in front of him before stabbing at Tony, "you're like, tech savvy right? Can't you search up his records?"
Tony huffs, "I already tried." He glares at the far end of the hallway, his phone dangling in his hand. "The records for this program are still in paper format. They don't get digitized till the end. And don't ask me about searching the city's system because I already did and you'd be shocked how many 'Steve Rogers' there are."
Natasha's pinching the bridge of her nose. "Do any of us feel like this is just a coincidence? Is there anyone here who believes Steve is probably fine and we're the ones being dramatic?"
"After the bruises on his neck Friday?" Clint points out, "His penchant for fights, and the fact that he's been missing for 2 days? Not me. Something is up."
They all agree.
"So what do we do?"
Bucky's the first to speak. "I know he lives off my subway line. But after that I don't know. Could we search?"
"What, knock on every door in that area of Brooklyn? We'd never find him!"
"I'm just trying to think of something!" Bucky huffs, glaring at Tony.
"Guys." Natasha snaps, "stop fighting. It isn't going to help us, and it isn't going to help Steve.
Clint starts walking down the hallway, stepping out of the school building, and digging something out of his pockets.
"You smoke?" Tony asks, his eyebrows going up.
"Yeah." Clint sighs, pulling out a lighter. "Picked up the habit."
He lights a cigarette and takes a pull.
"That's gross." Bucky and Natasha say at the same time.
"I know." Clint says, looking off towards the direction he saw Steve walk in from the first day. "Helps me relax though now." He falls silent and they don;t have a response, "You know we only met a week ago. Just last week today we sat at lunch together for the first time."
Tony lets out a large breath, scratching at his chin. "Feels like a lot longer."
"Is it weird that I already feel really protective of Steve?" Bucky asks, his lips pursing, "Like I know I barely know him—"
"I feel the same way." Clint interjects, "When I saw Rumlow push him, and he just brushed it off like it was nothing? I already felt like I wanted to figure him out."
"The way my sister talked about him solidified it for me," Natasha agrees. Her eyes slide to Tony who's looking a particular shade of queasy.
After he notices her glare he rolls his eyes. "Listen, my dad literally revealed the kid was deaf to us and then offered to help in any way he can, he's might as well be family at this point."
"So we find him?"
"We try."
—-
They decide to meet Bucky the next morning at the subway stop, if they don't see Steve, they're going to start knocking on doors.
—-
He hears the door open and he shoves the stuff back under the desk, peeling himself out of his hiding place and walking to a more central area. He's stiff, feels weak, his arm still kills, and he's bruised all over, but he can stand and move and he takes it as a plus.
"Steven?" Mrs. Schmidt calls.
"You get up here right now."
"Yes, ma'am."
He struggles up the stairs, his lungs protesting wildly after two nights in the damp and musty dungeon.
He finally gets his first breath of fresh air in over 48 hours.
"I expect you will have to go back to class tomorrow." She glares at him. "Better get yourself presentable. If I receive one more phone call? It's them that will pay."
Steve nods, "You won't, I swear. You won't."
"Good." She grabs the burn on his arm and he yelps in pain, "Don't make that mistake again." She flings him in the direction of the stairs that lead to the kids rooms and he stumbles forward, catching himself on the banister.
He practically crawls up, huffing at the top, so he stops, letting his breath even out. No need to scare the little ones more. He clutches the railing and pulls himself back to his feet. Walking stiffly towards his door. The lights are off and he looks at the clock, way past their bedtime.
He makes it to his bed and sits down before sliding off his shoes and grabbing his towel. He heads back to the bathroom and sits wearily on the edge of the tub, his hand idly waiting for the water to get to it's usual almost warm. His burnt arm lays on his lap, and he runs cold water over it at the end of the shower, even though it's too late to really help.
—
Three bodies are pressed close together on his bed as he makes his way back to it.
"Guys," he whispers, "you should be asleep."
"We heard the shower. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," he shoos them over to make room and he slides onto the top of his bed, leaning against the wobbly head frame.
"Steve." Wanda says seriously, her eyes glaring at him, "You were down there a really long time."
"I know." He huffs, trying to smile, "It won't happen again, I'm sorry that you guys were left up here all alone."
"She barely even acknowledged us." Pietro whispers. "We just avoided her as much as possible."
Peter worms his way up to Steve's feet and reaches up, gently touching Steve's cheek with his small finger. "Is your face okay?"
Steve is reminded that Peter only saw the slap he received. While it stung in the moment it was probably the most minor injury he received, "I appreciate your concern, Peter, but I promise I'm okay." His arm is tucked against his side.
"What else happened?" Wanda urges.
"Nothing you guys, just the dusty basement." His arm is tucked against him and he yawns widely. "I didn't get great sleep down there, it's pretty chilly, so I'm going to try to get some now."
They slink off to their beds and he slides down, appreciating the thin mattress and threadbare blanket.
—-
Bucky stands nervously on the platform, his backpack hanging on one shoulder. Clint and Natasha are pacing and looking at every passerby. Tony is on a bench, his phone twirling anxiously in his hands.
Bucky freezes, "there he is!" He hisses out, clutching at Clint's arm to get his attention. They all stop and watch as Steve descends the steps kind of stiffly and approaches the turnstiles. After he swipes his card he moves forward, almost passing them before noticing them. His face flashes surprise, and then distress before he smoothes it into something curious.
"What are you guys all doing here?"
"We've been waiting for you—" Natasha starts.
"Where have you been?" Bucky cuts in.
"I was…." Steve only pauses for a second before squaring his shoulders and speaking firmly, "I was at home. I didn't feel super great the last two days. So I decided it was better to stay home."
"Why didn't you text us?" Clint asks, "we exchanged numbers remember?"
Steve looks down the tunnel where the subway can be heard rumbling their way. "I don't have a cell-phone, sorry."
They blink. Of course he doesn't. "No problem." Tony cuts in, "hey maybe I'll get you one, it would be—"
"No." Steve cuts in sharply. "No, thank you."
The subways pulls up to a stop and the doors open. Steve shrugs forward, his thin shoulders holding up his book bag.
The group is about to relent. About to admit maybe they overreacted and that Steve really had just been sick when they see it. Natasha hears Bucky's throat make a quiet angry noise and Clint is seething next to her. Tony looks at his hands and then stuffs them into his pocket, following Steve onto the subway car.
None of them point it out. It's obvious that it's in a spot Steve wouldn't be able to see. They sit next to him, as he talks, asking them what he missed the last two days. All of them simultaneously trying to ignore it and unable to keep from staring at it.
The tiny patch of dried blood, standing out like a sore thumb on the back of Steve's light blonde hair.
—-