A/N: Hey guys! I'm back with another chapter! Yay! I felt really bad for the long wait for last chapter, so hopefully posting this will make up for it. This next chapter ties into the same situation the Banners have just come from, but this time, we're looking at Captain America's family...or, what he left behind. I'm sorry for the gap in story between this and the show, but like I've said before, I'm working on a mini series that clears things up. I hope you guys enjoy this chapter, and please, I don't want to sound as if I'm begging, but please review. If you don't review and tell me what you think, how am I supposed to know if you like it, and if I should continue? Just consider it when you get to the bottom, please and thank you!

Disclaimer: Again with this...we all know that I own nothing of Marvel. All I own is a pair of flip-flops and the original characters/storylines.

Chapter 3: A Hero's Welcome

The Captain sees light begin to surround him, but an unbearable heat comes with it. No, it's not light. It's fire. The ground below his feet is being consumed as he tries to outrun his unseen enemy. The darkness of the night sky is now splattered with orange and sounds of gunfire reach to the farthest edges of the blazing field he runs through. The Captain hears his fellow soldiers yell to each other. The stomp of their combat boots vibrates behind him as they catch up with their Commanding Officer.

"Come on!" he screams over the crackling flames. He motions the automatic rifle he holds overhead, telling his battalion to keep up. The Captain hears his friend, Lieutenant Reed, call after him.

"Captain, I can't find Private Gains!" says the Lieutenant.

"Keep moving!" the Captain tells him, and whoever else made it out of the base in time. "There's a safe spot at the end of the field." He has to get the remainder of his men out. They're all that matters now. More bullets can be heard behind them as the flames grow hotter beside them. They're trapped between guns and a hot place.

Then, just over the horizon, the sunrise attempts to climb back into the sky to light the soldiers' way. But it's too late. The next spray of ammunition is close enough to hit a few of the men, and they drop to the burning ground. The enemies scream in another language at them before opening fire again. This time, the Captain feels a pain shoot up his leg and into his spine. The soldier can feel himself gravitating towards the ground, and the next thing he knows, he's on fire.

An all-consuming blaze engulfs his clothes, and his skin starts to sear. His eyes glance down at his hands to find them stained with crimson blood. But he can't move. He can't roll the fire away because it's all around him. It would be futile to even attempt. So, the Captain lays in the flaming grass in agony, allowing the heat to cover him completely. There's no point in fighting it.

This is where he dies.

The flames take the Captain under, and the roaring fire drowns out the sound of his men begging for mercy, screaming for the pain to stop. He closes his eyes and welcomes the end. The soldier's thoughts retreat into the darkest corners of his mind to hide from his horrible failure. I should've been more prepared for attacks, he thinks. I should've been more alert. I'm not the hero everyone assumes I am because my last name is Rogers. Every single soldier under my authority is either in the hands of the enemy, bleeding out or burned to death.

He deserves to die here.

Yet in the midst of his painful ending, he can hear a sweet and soothing voice call his name from beyond the overwhelming flames. "Wake up, Captain," a woman says. Her tone captivates him, but why does need to wake up? Wake up to what? His world is set ablaze, he's dying. What could there possibly be for him to wake up to?

She beckons him once more, "James, wake up."

The voice persists until the Captain gathers all the strength he has left and wakes up.

Brooklyn, New York. Monday, September 8th, 2042. 05:23 pm.

Captain James Rogers searches for air to overcome the shock of finding himself on a couch. He's not actually running through a burning plateau in Tibet with his men dying around him—but in his family's Brooklyn home. Nowhere near China or the unforgiving battlefield. The soldier's battalion isn't dying, or on fire—most of them are preparing to leave their International Guard outpost near the city of Nakchu. The dream was simply his fear of leaving his men twisted into a nightmare.

He sits up and grasps the edge of the couch to tether himself. He didn't leave them. The young Guard Captain vaguely remembers telling them all goodbye as he and other soldiers from the United States hopped in a Jeep and drove to the airport. All of them leaving the broken but healing nation of China behind.

James wipes away the sweat that has collected on his forehead. He runs a hand through his short, blonde hair and blinks away the mist clouding his vision. He takes in the living room around him that he hasn't seen in four years. His mom has painted the walls and moved things around a bit, but none too drastic a change.

The old, navy cloth couch James sat on as a kid has been replaced by a new, red leather one. Not as comfortable as the old one, he thinks, rubbing at the ache in his back. The once cream colored walls have been painted a cloud gray, with several familiar paintings scattered around the room. The blonde stands, stretching his stiff arms and legs. Sitting down for roughly 20 hours of flight time from the other side of the world is sure to make one's bones weary.

Stepping lightly across the chilled hardwood floor, the young man's deep blueberry eyes drift towards the red painted front door, and the coat rack beside it. A lone trench coat is draped on one of the many hooks, and he remembers that it's there for a reason. That reason being for his mother's peace of mind. In the right outside pocket sits a fully loaded Glock pistol.

You know, just in case.

James rolls his eyes and makes his way towards the kitchen. He glides up to the doorway where he finds his mother sipping on a mug of steaming something. She holds up the daily newspaper and doesn't seem to notice her son yet. James feels a smile tug at the sight of her. Of all the changes she's made to their home, she wasn't one of them. Her long, ruby red hair still sweeps across her forehead and stands out against her pale skin. Her bright green eyes skim intently over the newspaper, narrowing every so often, seemingly lost in her reading material. James steps forward and lands on a squeaky board. Simultaneously, his mother's eyes dart towards him.

"I was wondering when you were going to stop standing there and come in," she says.

"You knew I was there?" he says. "Of course you knew I was there, you're the Black Widow." James approaches the little kitchen table and takes a seat next to Natasha. "How come I didn't inherit your sneaky gene?" James asks.

Natasha chuckles at her son, setting her paper on the table. "First of all, I was the Black Widow—past tense. And second, it's because you have too much of your father in you. Steve Rogers stuck out like a star-spangled billboard."

James smirks to suppress an oncoming chuckle. "Touché."

"Welcome home," Natasha says, her tone softening as she holds her youngest son's hand. He nods and squeezes her hand to reassure her that he's really home. "How was your nap?"

"It was okay. But I don't even remember getting home…or going to sleep," he answers.

"Well," she starts. "Let's run through the events of the morning, shall we? First, you called me from Seattle, told me you were on your way home."

"Did you faint?" James asks with a raised brow. He knows his mother isn't one to show her emotions—even to her kids—but he thought that maybe after rarely hearing from him for four years, she might show the slightest bit of emotion.

Natasha rolls her eyes. "I don't faint. But, I may have teared up a little." This causes James to grin. "And I had a right to, former S.H.I.E.L.D. or not, I'm a mother and I was happy to hear from you after…how many months since the last time we talked?"

James thinks for a moment. "About six months. I'm sorry we couldn't talk more, but none of us really had the time or resources to contact family in the field."

"I know," she sighs. "I'm just glad you're home now. Safe and sound."

"Yeah. Safe and sound…" James feels Natasha's stare on him as a distant memory leads his dark blue eyes away from their conversation. Away and back to China…back to Zhai Lu. The sound of his mother's voice drags him from the thought grabbing at his attention.

"After you called, I drove to the airport and waited for you. When your plane landed and we drove home, you hit the couch," she tells him. "You were out like a light. I took your bag to your room by the way."

"Thank you."

"So, I imagine S.H.I.E.L.D. will need you for debriefing soon, right? I know the standard procedure is one day's rest, then you're under review," Nat says, taking another sip from her black mug.

James leans back in his chair. "Colonel Phillips told me before I left that debriefing would start Wednesday. I'm expected on the Helicarrier that morning. I'm sure the Director will want to interrogate me and make me see a psychologist," James comments, his lips pursed and his body stiffening.

"You know it's regulation. Besides, I've known the resident psychologist since she was a little girl, you'll be in Doctor Lang's capable hands," Natasha assures with a wink. James relaxes his body, hoping he can trust his mother's word. "Now, you hungry?"

"You have no idea," James replies, stretching back and yawning.

Natasha begins to rise from her chair when James stops her. "Hang on, you're not cooking tonight," he says.

Natasha raises her brows. "And why not?"

"Because," he begins to smile. "I am. I learned a thing or two about food in China, and I'd like to try it out on you."

Natasha settles back into her chair with her arms crossed. "Well please, cook away." She holds out her hands, gesturing that the kitchen is all his. The last thing she expected her son to do when he came home was to cook her dinner.

Now fully rested and ready to eat, James rummages through the black fridge and gray cabinets in search of the ingredients to the recipe swirling around in his head.

When the 19-year-old Rogers boy was recruited for the International Guard by S.H.I.E.L.D., he had to learn and adapt quickly to the situation he was thrown into. Things could change in an instant, and he'd be met with a whole new set of circumstances. Luckily for him, he was taught by many good men how to do the few things his parents didn't teach him. One of those cooking was a decent meal.

The now 22-year-old glides around the kitchen, on a mission to cook dinner. But the weight of his mother's watchful eyes fall on his shoulders. No doubt attempting to notice if her baby boy has changed. You have no idea, James thinks. He carefully picks up utensils and other items as opposed to blindly grabbing as he would have before he left. His eyes constantly shift to the sides, catching on everything there and not there. His squared features hold a firm yet weary expression as he peers out the small window above the sink. James knows Natasha has seen firsthand what war can do to someone—the constant paranoia that plagues your every waking moment, the feeling that you'll never be able to un-see the violence that you've taken part in. The guilt for the lives you took in the name of peace. James knows that if anyone will understand what he's been through, it's her. But for now, James plans on keeping his war to himself.

Several minutes tick by and James has a mix of vegetables thrown into a skillet. Soon he starts opening and looking through cabinets until he gets to the overhead cabinet at the end. He reaches for the top shelf and pulls down a tall, half empty green bottle with a pale liquid inside.

"Hey, how'd you know that was up there?" Natasha asks, nodding at white wine James just pulled from the cabinet.

"I've always known, mom," he chuckles. "It's not Yellow wine like Mrs. Yawen Fey showed me how to use, but it'll do."

"Mrs. Yawen Fey?"

"My battalion passed through a small town in the Yunnan Province near the Tibetan/Nepal border. We were pretty much exhausted, so we stopped to set up camp for a couple of days outside the town. This place was so tiny, you could barely call it a town, but for some reason, it had a restaurant," James says. He pulls the cork out of the wine bottle and pours a little onto the veggies searing in the pan, causing a small flame to erupt. But the flame quickly disappears, signifying that the alcohol has burnt off.

"The guys decided to check it out since we hadn't eaten real food since we left the base. So, we checked it out. Sergeant Lin, our translator, explained to us after he spoke to the cook that it wasn't really a restaurant, but more of a soup kitchen."

"Oh?" Natasha curiously watches as James shakes the frying pan and flips the veggies, then pours in some soy sauce she didn't even know she had. James turns to the fridge and pulls out a package of chicken breast.

"Are you using this?"

"I was planning on it, but please, go ahead. Now, what about this soup kitchen?"

"Oh, right." James begins slicing up the chicken and continues with his story. "Well when we found out that this lady was cooking meals for all three hundred residents of the town every day, we had to know more. Turns out the lady's real name was Yawen Yin-Dae, she apparently was famous in China as an actress when she was young. She ended up so rich and unhappy, that she sold everything, and started traveling her country. She came across the town and realized how it was struggling. So, she started the kitchen. It was crazy, she said she had so much money she didn't know what to do with it, so she uses it to fund her 'restaurant.'"

"That's a little hard to believe," Natasha says, her skepticism showing through a raised eyebrow.

"Trust me, it's true," James insists. "But anyway, when Mrs. Yawen realized who we were, she took me back to the kitchen and showed me how to cook several of her favorite dishes. In case I needed to feed my crew on my own, or we just got tired of gnawing on MRE's."

Natasha laughs. Having eaten a few of those nasty freeze dried meals in her life, James knows she can understand the situation the soldiers were in. "Okay, okay, let me see if I'm getting this right...a rich, former Chinese actress who now runs a soup kitchen taught you how to cook whatever it is you're cooking now?" She peers towards the sizzling frying pan as he throws in some thinly sliced strips of chicken.

"Oh, this? It's stir fry."

"James, we could've gotten stir fry from ordering take out."

"But this is Yawen Fey's stir fry!" James says proudly, gesturing his hands towards the pan. Next, he pours in some brown rice from a box and adds a spritz of white vinegar. "Also, do you have some fresh ginger?"

"Check the herb cabinet, I think I picked up a few roots yesterday." Natasha points to the overhead cabinet to James' immediate left. The blonde finds what he's looking for, a misshapen soft brown root and sets it down on the counter. Stirring the veggies and chicken, he makes a pass over the pan with some salt and pepper, then pulls at the drawer beside him. Knowing his mom's organization, he doubts anything has moved around in the last four years. And there it is, the grater he needs laying on its side like always. With a thin kitchen blade in hand, he begins peeling a small branch of the root, then shreds some of the tips over the frying pan. The sizzling ingredients all combined create a breathtaking aroma that drifts into James' lungs, taking him back to the moment he first smelled it.

"I hope that's almost done because that scent is driving me crazy," she comments.

"It is. Will you get some plates out?" James asks, looking over his shoulder at his mom. Natasha stands and takes two plates off of the open shelf on the wall by the fridge, along with two paper napkins and a set of water bottles from the inside the fridge door. James finishes up with the stir fry while Natasha sets the table for two, just like she used to every night after his older brother, Gabriel, joined S.H.I.E.L.D.

After four years, the Captain had almost forgotten what it was like to eat a meal with his mom sitting across from him. "And," James starts scooping the stir fry from the pan and drops it onto the two plates he has balanced on his arm. "Dinner is served."

A few bites in and neither has spoken a word to the other. Simply being home is enough for James at the moment. While he munches on some peppers and chicken, a swell of questions flood his thoughts. He sorts through them one by one, ranking each by priority and relevance. But as he decides on the question he wants to ask first, he crunches down on a piece of broccoli that was quite finished cooking. The sound resonates in his ears, mimicking the same crunch he made stepping on a twig while his men were passing through a forest.

Once sitting with his mother eating dinner, James is now back in China. The memory of skulking through that forest grips him and tries to remove him from his home in Brooklyn. But his mother calls him back to dinner.

"James?"

The young man's attention makes its way back and he finds himself staring across the table at his mother, a concerned look riddling her bright green eyes.

"Where'd you go?" she asks, taking a drink of water from her bottle.

James blinks hard. Chu Wei forest, he thinks. "Nowhere special," he says, taking another bite. "I've got a lot of questions."

"I'm sure," she nods, biting another fork full. "Ask away."

"Well, firstly," he swallows. "I like the new paint, but I'd like to know where you got the couch. That…thing is the least comfortable thing I've ever slept on, and I've slept on the ground most of the past four years." Natasha laughs.

"Well it's not for sleeping on, but you just looked so tired when we got home," Natasha says, pointing her fork at him. "I wasn't about to make you walk all the way to the back of the house and sleep on a bare mattress in your room."

"Don't tell me you took my room apart," James wonders, taking a drink.

"No, just stripped the bed and covered it. And besides, that old blue thing you call a couch is out in the garage, in case you want to sleep on it instead of my extremely uncomfortable red one," Nat suggests, smirking.

James rolls his eyes. "No need to be sarcastic, mom. I'll just make my bed."

"That's fine," she says.

"So," he pauses, picking the next question on the mental list. "How are Kassidy and Antonio?"

Natasha smiles at the mention of James' best friends. "Kassidy comes to see me just about every week, and I assume Antonio is doing well, she doesn't mention him much," she says, her brow furrowed in thought.

"Is he still in college? I know he was prepping when I left," he asks.

"Actually, he's been home since April. But from what Kassy tells me, he's been busy working for his Dad, and she's been busy teaching at the Rec center in Midtown," Nat explains.

"Huh." James considers this before proceeding with the next question. The thought of his friends brings a feeling James wasn't expecting. He thought he would feel excited to see them, but instead a nervous—embarrassed even—feeling crawls up his throat. Why should he feel nervous about seeing his two best friends in this world? Because they may not recognize me, he tells himself.

The next hour passes by as the mother and son talk and joke somewhat about things. Dinner quickly disappears, and soon the dishes are in the sink and Natasha and James are sitting in the living room. Nat sits on her "uncomfortable" couch, while James gets comfy in the chair beside her, sharing the cushion with his propped up foot. Stories and questions get passed around, mostly James asking about what's changed in the four years he's been gone, and Natasha answering him with slightly embellished stories.

His friends come up in conversation as Natasha recalls her visits with Kassidy. Apparently her "Niece," as she calls Kassidy, came over a lot, with Bobbie visiting occasionally. Eventually, James has to ask if his Dad's motorcycle—a gift from his mom when he turned 17—has been kept up. His mother tells him that Gomez from the shop down the street has taken care of it and that it's in the garage waiting for him. But once James has been caught up, and all joking and stories have been put aside, an unanswered question weighs on his mind. The question started out as top on the list but was pushed down to the bottom as soon it came time to ask it. Even now, he can't bring himself to ask it yet.

"I'm glad you kept Dad's paintings up after the improvements," James mentions. He rises from his chair and walks across the room, his eyes meeting a beautiful abstract piece in a rainbow of colors. Steve started painting not long after he and Natasha were married, and never stopped afterward. At least five hang in the living room and James vaguely remembers seeing some down the hallway when he came in the front door earlier.

"I wasn't about to put him…them in storage. They belong here, where everyone who passes through can see them." Natasha joins him in admiring Steve's handiwork.

But the bottom of the list question won't seem to go away. The pestering thought forces him to finally ask. "Have you heard from Gabe lately?"

The question hangs in the air a moment. His mother stands silent, her eyes lost in the strokes of color on the canvas, her lips pursed in apparent contemplation. "He called a few days ago to tell me about the peace treaty between East and West China. Told me to expect a call from you. He said you'd be released to come home."

"What about him? Will he be visiting home anytime soon?" James' tone suddenly takes a cynical turn.

"Gabe was still on a mission when we talked, but he said he'd be back in New York City within the next few days for debriefing before they send him back out. He said he would come by to see how you're doing. Who knows, you may even pass him on the Helicarrier Wednesday."

He turns his eyes back to the painting, his thoughts turning angry. "Yeah, who knows?"

Rogers' House, Brooklyn. 10:37 p.m.

James finishes pulling the sheet on his bed military tight and huffs proudly at his freshly made bed. Looks like one of those "Better Homes & Gardens" beds, he thinks. But as inviting as the cushioned mattress looks compared the plank-like cots he slept on in China—that is, when he had the pleasure of sleeping on one—he can't bring himself to lay on it. The bed is too soft. As tired and as stiff as he feels, he ends up on the floor.

With a plush brown blanket scarcely covering his toes and one well-used pillow just barely keeping his head off the floor, the young soldier tosses and turns beside his bed. The carpeted room he grew up in hasn't changed much since he left it, save for the glowing action figures that once sat on his bookshelf in the corner. He boxed those up when he was seventeen because they were bothering him at night. But as sleep escapes him now, he wishes the soft green from the highlights on the figures were lighting up the darkness around him. Because now, the darkness has new meaning to it, and he's pretty sure he heard a bump.

He allows for a few more minutes before he gives up trying to fall asleep. And when that time passes, he sits up. As much as he wishes it was the floor causing his insomnia, he knows it's more than likely that his body is used to time zones on the other side of the world. And combined with jet lag and his uneasy mind, he's convinced he won't be sleeping tonight. So, he quietly gets up, grabs a hoodie to pull over his workout shirt, and steps out of his room. He tiptoes down the hallway and out the side door in the living room, opening the door to reveal his Dad's army green painted motorcycle parked next to his mom's black Mustang. He rolls up the garage door and allows some fresh air to clear away the musty scent while he gets to work.

James stays up long past the midnight hours tinkering with his Dad's motorcycle. Natasha insisted that Gomez the mechanic took care of it, and James believes her, but instead of tossing and turning in on the floor till dawn, he wants something to keep busy with.

Clothed in his long pajama bottoms, an old S.H.I.E.L.D. hoodie that barely fits, and a metric wrench in hand, he begins checking over every inch of the WLA Harley-Davidson motorcycle. Considering the two-wheeled vehicle is over one hundred years old, it looks as if it's brand new. James shakes his head in disappointment. Sure, he's happy Gomez took such great care of his father's bike but did he have to leave her in perfect shape? The blonde wanted at least one thing to fix on his baby. He continues to scan the old bike with his deep blues but finds nothing.

"Wait a second," he says. He leans in closer to the gas tank and realizes there's a chip in the paint. I knew it, he thinks. "And the spokes on the back wheel are bent."

The young Rogers begins to detach the back wheel from the frame, propping the bike up on cement blocks. "This may take a while," he starts, patting his motorcycle. "But I'll get you looking perfect."

"Still talking to that old hunk of steel, huh?" sounds a voice behind James. James reacts quickly, moving into a defensive position and ready to use his wrench as a weapon. If there's one thing the military taught him, it's to be ready for anything. But no amount of training could prepare him for the visitor standing in the driveway.

"Gabe?" James barely whispers. Tall and muscular with a chin like his father and a sly smile like his mother, Gabriel Rogers stands before him in the flesh. His red hair has gotten long and wild since James saw him last, but his beaming blue-green eyes haven't changed a bit. He nonchalantly waits under the garage door with his hands tucked away in the pockets of his black, leather jacket. James hasn't decided yet if he feels like hugging him or breaking his nose.

"Hey there, little brother," Gabe says. The two stand and stare at each other for a moment. Finally, James' hard expression breaks into a smile and he sets his wrench on a worktable, embracing his brother. The two stay like this for a moment, simply enjoying each other's presence. But James pulls back as he recalls something his mother mentioned to him earlier.

"Not that I don't love seeing my big brother after four years, but what are you doing here?"

"What? I can't come see my little brother when he comes home from war?" Gabe innocently questions. The mood suddenly changes and James stiffens, completely pulling his arms away from his brother. Their moment of brotherly reunion is over. James is no longer happy to see Gabe, but suspicious of his reasons for dropping by out of nowhere at one in the morning.

"Mom told me earlier that you were on a mission, and that you wouldn't be home for another couple of days," James says. He notices Gabe's body straighten and the tone in his voice shifts. Something is up.

"I just got the job done sooner than expected, that's all," Gabe says. "Why? Do you think I'm lying?" Gabe's guilt card has been played, and now it's James' turn to draw.

"It's kind of hard to tell, so much of what comes out of your mouth is questionable," James spits.

The redhead's jaw clenches, as he knows what's coming next. Gabe raises an eyebrow and tilts his head in an annoyed manner. "We can't just have a nice moment, can we?" he asks, shaking his head. Gabe rests his hands on his hips and braces for the verbal knock down that approaches.

James narrows his eyes, looking his darkly dressed brother up and down. "That depends on what you want."

"There it is. Because I only come around when I want something, right?" Gabe asks. "Because I always have a hidden agenda somewhere up my sleeves, isn't that right? I can't come home to check on my only sibling who's just come back from a war he shouldn't have been in—"

"Hey, S.H.I.E.L.D. chose me just like they chose you," James interjects.

"Which was a mistake. You weren't…" Gabe pauses. He can see the anger turning James' cheeks red.

"I wasn't what? Good enough? I wasn't as good as the great spy Gabriel Rogers who gets all the girls and none of the consequences?" James suggests.

Gabe's expression turns serious. "You weren't ready."

All the cards have been laid out. James can feel the hurt tears brimming his blueberry eyes, possibly from the words spoken, or maybe from knowing that his big brother is right. James wasn't ready to be thrown into a battlefield at 18—Captain America's son or not. But it had to be said, Gabe needs to see how he'll react.

James is silent for a moment that stretches into an eternity, his eyes downcast. When he finally meets Gabe's eyes again, the hurt has been replaced with a burning anger. "Get out," he says calmly. When Gabe doesn't react he says it again, louder. "I said, get out of my garage."

Gabe was afraid he'd react this way. "Whatever you say, little brother." The redhead turns and is about to walk back down the concrete driveway when he stops himself. He turns back to James. "Before I go, Jimbo. I just want you to know that this time, I honestly came for you."

The blonde simply turns his head away. Gabe takes his cue and walks away, leaving his already unsettled brother frazzled. As Gabe makes his way down the drive and onto the sidewalk, he hears something metal clang loudly against the concrete floor of the garage, followed by the sound of his mother's voice. The redhead sighs and continues down the sidewalk until he stops by a parked black Camaro. He pulls a set of keys out of his pocket and with a click, hops inside. Once in the driver's seat, Gabe leans back and waits. He props his hand against his mouth as he thinks about how much he hates his job sometimes. The silence is suddenly broken by an alert from his dashboard, telling him he's being called.

Gabe presses a button on the steering wheel to answer. "Yeah?"

A woman's voice echoes through the sports car. "How did it go?"

"Not well," Gabe answers, his eyes drifting out the window.

"Did you get the information we needed?" she asks.

"Yeah. His paranoia is heightened, more so than usual. A violent temper which isn't normal. He's obviously upset and I suggest a full psych evaluation when he starts the debriefing process tomorrow. I also strongly suggest you wait before you even think about putting him on a mission."

The car is silent for a second before the woman answers. "Are you speaking as a neutral agent or as his brother?"

"Both! Director Johnson, he needs time to recover before you throw him into another war," Gabe shouts.

"Are you saying that he has PTSD, Agent Rogers?" Johnson asks.

"I'm saying that there's no telling what he went through in China, and I don't want you to overwhelm him." Gabe's voice cracks. "He's just a kid, Daisy."

"James is not a kid anymore, Gabriel. I know protecting your brother is a top priority for you, but S.H.I.E.L.D. needs him. And I need someone else I can trust with this."

Gabe huffs in defeat. "I know."

The man is silent as he thinks about his little brother. He goes back to all the lies he's told James to keep him out of the life Gabe has chosen to live, to keep him away from S.H.I.E.L.D. Considering who they grew up with as parents, he would've thought something like this might have happened sooner, but Gabriel and Natasha both have been able to keep James blissfully ignorant, that is, until S.H.I.E.L.D. recruited him for China. Now, Gabriel knows his brother is no longer innocent or ignorant to the world. He was taught how to fight, defend and kill in China. And Gabe is sure he did what he was taught.

No matter how much Gabe still views James as the helpless little kid he helped raise, he knows his brother has changed. Whether for the good or bad, he's not sure yet. He only knows that now, because of the four years of war and the many years prior of inner turmoil, James is ready. Ready for the challenges and anything else S.H.I.E.L.D. wants to throw at him.

"So, can I trust him?" she asks.

"Yes," Gabe answers. "You can trust him."

A/N: So? Anyone's wheels starting to turn about what's happening here? Anyone got any theories? I'd love to hear them if you do! Also, HEART BREAKING FAMILY FEELS, GAH! Sorry. It was too much even for me this chapter. Anyway, leave a review and tell me whatcha think! Thanks for reading!

Up next: The Ant-Man's Daughter

Hey I just posted this...and this is crazy...but since you've read it...review it maybe?