August 15th, 2012, Somewhere in New Mexico


Steve felt lonely and alone, all at once, and he was not sure how he was meant to process it.

He used to be so good at being alone. It was forced on him time and time and time again at various times in his life, but he had never felt it quite so strongly as he did standing in the empty door of Avery Gudrun's abandoned house. It sat empty long enough that there was a layer of dust over everything, adding to the feeling and making his gut feel like something had settled in there and died.

Heimdall certainly had a sense of humor to drop him off and leave him there, of all places.

Frigga had made it clear that he needed to give Avery space.

He had given her space for about six hours now and he hated it.

Steve sat on the threadbare couch and stared around the small living room. He felt like he was intruding the first time he had been there – with Tony and Avery and their cat. But this time, after knowing her for so many months and knowing how much she liked it when people she cared about were comfortable enough to be in her space.

He just wished she was there with him.

More, he wished he had told her that.

But most of all, he wished he was aware enough of himself to understand what that meant.

More than friendliness, that was for damn sure.

Steve rubbed his eyes.

He would stay the night before he made he figured out his way back to New York. It would give him time to try and come up with a good explanation for Tony and Peter for why he came back without Avery.

"Pull yourself together, Steve."

Just because he left behind the woman he might or might not have feelings for doesn't mean he could act like this.

He was supposed to be getting his life together – adjusting to modern life and all that. He was supposed to find some sort of purpose and some sort of direction. His life direction couldn't involve different realms, even if he did want it to involve those that lived in those other realms.

Steve stood up, feeling jittery and on edge.

Avery packed up her house in a hurry, but she didn't take everything. Extra pots and pans, ratty clothes, even the odd porcelain knick knack or two. Nothing important, nothing sentimental except for the row of photos still handing on the wall that led to the two back bedrooms. He walked over to them, thankful to have something to look at.

The first one was of Avery and her mother. She must have been about five, with a crooked smile of missing teeth and a constellation of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She had her arms wrapped around her mother's neck, pulling her in close. Steve pulled it off the wall and held it in his left hand. The next, Avery appeared to be about the same age. A graduation. Again, it was just her mother and her, but they both seemed happy enough. He stacked them all up in his hand, making up his mind to take them back to New York with him in the morning.

Picture after picture, he got to see Avery age up until she was an early teenager, when the photos abruptly stopped.

When they started up again, Avery was alone.

Every graduation, every obligatory photo of Avery somewhere interesting, even a baseball game or two, she was alone.

Steve's hand hovered over the last picture.

The feeling of loneliness intensified.

If there had been a camera with him when he graduated high school, it would have told the same story. Well, not entirely. He at least had Bucky.

He ran the tip of his finger over her face, shoulders slumping.

Steve knew the feeling.

He just didn't want to say it.

But he knew it.

And he knew he would keep feeling it until she finally decided to come home – if she ever decided to come home.

Steve moved his hand to pull the picture off the wall, making up his mind that he was well and truly committed to being miserable for the night. In the morning, he would get it together.

But before he could contemplate any further the sorry state of affairs he found himself in, a fist came flying at the side of his head.

He flew sideways, the pictures spilling the ground in a messy spray.

Steve slammed into the wall, shoulder puncturing through the old drywall.

He pushed himself off it and turned around, fists raised up into a defensive position. He was already thrown off by the fact that he hadn't heard his attacker without the debilitating punch.

That was almost as insulting as it was painful.

The man who delivered the blow advanced on him again, pulling a knife from his belt and lunged for him. Steve swerved sideways, pushing the man's arm to the side so that the knife collided with the wall. He used the momentary advantage to switch their positions, putting himself on the attack mode. He punched his exposed side, aiming for the ribs and anything else he could reach.

But it hardly phased him and the man pulled his knife out of the wall and threw his other arm sideways, latching onto Steve's neck with an unnaturally strong grip.

Inhumanly strong.

Superhumanly strong.

The man pushed Steve back into the picture wall, fingers tightening around his neck and cutting off his air supply.

Steve grasped at him, grappling for any part of him that could get a hold.

The picture still hanging on the wall clattered back and forth, dangling dangerously closed to falling off.

The other man paused.

And Steve, sensing this might be his last real opportunity, broke the man's hold and flipped him around. He slammed him to the ground and dropped a knee down to his chest.

"Who are you?" Steve asked, grappling with the man.

He reached for his black mask, genuinely shocked by how difficult it was to reach.

The man struggled underneath him and just at the exact moment Steve managed to grab the underside of his mask, something sharp dug into his side.

Steve gasped.

The pain spread up his side.

His fingers dug under the mask and shoved it upwards.

"Bucky?"

The man – Bucky fucking Barnes of all people – shoved the knife deeper.

Steve panicked, grabbing the closest hard object he could find.

A picture frame, one with five years old Avery smiling at the camera with a handful of worms.

He slammed it down three times.

And then he did it again, just for good measure.

Only when he was certain Bucky was knocked out cold, did he sit back and allow himself to really look at his face.

And only when he caught a glimpse of the cracked glass and blood on the frame, did he allow himself to cry.


"So."

Tony stared down Mandu, narrowing his eyes ever so slightly as the offending feline tilted his head.

He was freshly groomed at Pepper's insistence and positively livid at just how smooth and clean his fur was. It was a delight and a great surprise to them both to discover that what they thought was a pleasant grey color, was actually supposed to be a creamy white.

"I know it was you. I know you ate the last cannoli."

It was just the two of them that evening – not including JARVIS, of course- and Tony was once again starting to go a little batty. Avery and Steve had been gone damn near a month and Tony was no closer to figuring out what he was supposed to do with their little sprog. Like a child, he didn't have the foggiest what was right and appropriate and healthy.

And so he made it a suit.

And then another when he finished the first.

And now, when he couldn't very well come up with an excuse to make a third, he was three hours into figuring out the perfect recipe for cat-safe alcohol while Pepper was out for the night.

"And I know you were the one who licked the top of the cake Pepper ordered last week."

Mandu tilted his head the other direction and continued to stare. After a moment, he turned to the right and walked over to the latest of Tony's tinkering. He pushed a few of the soldering instruments aside and curled up, completely oblivious to the delicate work was trying to do.

"Menace."

Tony rolled his eyes and turned back table in front of him.

Three separate activities were laid out, each opening up their own little rabbit hole for him to fall down.

The first, the aforementioned cat alcohol. But that could only hold his interest for so long and after fiddling with the recipe for the last three days straight – with brief breaks for human alcohol and the occasional hours of sleep here and there – he thought he had figured it out.

The second was a lot healthier and the desperately needed paperwork for Stark Industries.

So naturally he completely pushed it aside.

Option three it was.

A Nazi notebook and a bit of cat alcohol – calcohol – should tide him over until Pepper got back. And then he would need to pretend to be normal again. He would need to pretend that he was sleeping a normal amount and that when he closed his eyes he didn't see the never ending black maw of space.

"JARVIS, pull up the scan of the Nazi notebook."

It materialized in front of him, still just as much gibberish as it was the first time he flipped through it.

"I'm assuming it's a personal cypher and not one the government has kept stored in its old files."

"It would appear so, sir."

"Of course. What can you parse?"

"It uses a combination of German, Russian, and what appears to be a made-up language. There also appears to be a significant portion that uses chemical formulations."

"Fucking Nazis. Never met a bit of experimental science they didn't like." Tony turned around in his chair and looked at Mandu. "What do you think, bud. Should this be our activity tonight?" Mandu didn't open his eyes. "Right. Well, if you're just going to sleep away all your productive hours I'm going to drink the rest."

Tony grabbed the drink, a pink concoction of his own design, and poured it into his glass. He even added an umbrella for flourish. "JARVIS, pull all the formulas and let's take a look at those first. While you're at it, go ahead and run them against known Nazi, German, and Russian specific chemical compounds."

"Right away, sir."

"Thi-"

"Sir, Captain Rogers is calling."

"Put him through." Tony took a long swig of his drink, ignoring the blinky aftertaste and the subtle notes of salmon, and waited for Steve to speak. When he didn't, Tony rolled his eyes. "Rogers, too much ti-"

"Tony! I need a quinjet."

"Hello to you too."

"I'm at Avery's house in New Mexico. I need it."

Tony raised his hand, trusting JARVIS to understand. "What's going on? Do you need help?"

"I just need the jet."

"It's on its way."

Silence.

"Rogers."

More silence.

"Steve?"

"I believe he hung up, sir."

"Perfect. That's just perfect. Because now I'm invested and a little drunk on cat sangria."

"Shall I call him back?"

Tony debated it for a moment, curious beyond measure. But he would try and exercise restraint, as he had promised Pepper he would in the wake of him flying a nuke through a wormhole. He was supposed to stay home and not go flying off after every little thing. Even if those little things did sound like not so little things.

"Pull up the heartrate monitors."

He could start with that.

He could start with a bit information before he made his decision. The screen popped up in front of him and he looked at each of his teammate's faces and monitors one by one. All safe and healthy and accounted for, save for Avery who had dropped off the moment she and Steve went off world. The first few days they had been gone he still checked, hoping that he might see something just to give himself a bit of peace of mind.

But they were dark.

And they were so far out of his reach and ability to help, he had been forced to come to terms with letting them do it on their own.

He did not even know if Avery was alive, given how she had left back in July, and the unknowns had been slowly eating away at him.

But he still had not answers.

Because it was only Steve who had returned and it was only Steve whose heartrate monitor started up again.

It was only Steve.

A panicked, terrified, erratic-hearted Steve, but still only him.

No Avery.

Tony leaned forward and stared at the monitor, debating with himself.

"Good news, Mandu," Tony said, standing up and walking over to the cat. "You're dad's home. Bad news is he's hiding something. I promised you're grandma Pepper – and I'll kill you if you tell her I called her that – says I need to wait for my teammates to actually ask for help before I start sticking my nose in it."

Mandu opened his eyes when Tony placed a hand on top of his head.

"I'll wait. It will kill mean and I'm pretty sure I shouldn't be forced to, but I will respect the fact that Steve only asked for the quinjet and not me." He moved his hand back and forth over Mandu's head. "It's fine. I'm fine."

"Sir?"

"JARVIS, give me something to focus on. Pull up the first compound. Let's see how well I was paying attention in freshman chem."


"I told you we should have stayed in Queens tonight," Peter said, bending down to check the pulse of the man closest to his feet. His nose was mush, courtesy of Matt and his concerning, although remarkably useful, rage. The man was out cold, but he was breathing and his heartbeat – once erratic with fear – had steadied out. "Nothing crazy ever happens in Queens."

Matt grunted, narrowly avoiding the fist flying at his face. The thug's hand slammed into the brick just next to his head, shattering the top layer. The red dust blended in with the blood red of his suit. He resisted wearing it at first, entirely unwilling to admit that he was associated with the Avengers – the most badass name imaginable, in Peter's not so humble opinion – in any way, shape, or form. But even he couldn't deny the finery of the suit and the amount of time saved on not sewing was worth the minor hit to his pride.

So he wore the suit.

And he went on patrol with Peter nearly every night.

He even had Tony's number stored in his phone.

But he would not call himself part of the team.

Matt squirmed a little, bending down ever so slightly as he lifted his left leg, and Peter knew exactly what was coming. He turned away, wincing slightly at the sound of the attacker's knee shattering under the force of Matt's foot. He had been hero-ing, if that was even the right word, for over a year now and he still wasn't used to the sound of bone breaking.

"One more," Matt said, pointing to the end of the alley as the turned his back to Peter made quick work of the last man still trying to put up a fight.

Peter shot a web and yanked, pulling the fleeing man back. He was careful not to use too much force, all too aware of what could happen if he forgot that it was very vulnerable, squishy humans on the other side of his web. The man yelped, arms flailing, as he soared through the air. He landed at Peter's feet and immediately started to scramble, only to be stopped in place by a well-placed punch to the back of the head.

"Jewel thieves," Matt mused, flipping over one of the robbers. Diamonds tinkled to the ground from his pockets and Peter was suddenly struck by how mundane it all was after dealing with aliens. But he thought he liked it better. It was what he supposed to do, what a Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man was supposed to do, so he bent down and collected the valuables back into a discarded canvas bag. "And not very good ones."

Matt tightened his gloves and faced the end of the alley, tilting his head ever so slightly.

"Cops," Pete said before he had the chance, gathering the jewels up just a little bit faster.

Matt was more of a rough 'em up and leave 'em type, preferring to avoid interacting with the police at all costs. In that, he and Peter were in perfect agreement. Peter handed Matt the bag of stolen goods and made quick work of stringing up the unconscious thieves.

"Are you still planning on going to the tower?" Matt asked, holding out his hand for Peter, the motion practiced and familiar after weeks of working together. After Avery left – or disappeared, he wasn't quite sure – they had been supremely uncomfortable with each other without her as a natural buffer. Peter gripped Matt's wrist, holding his fingers just tight enough that he wouldn't slip out but not tight enough to bruise, and shot a web up to the top of the nearest building.

Matt perched on the edge of the building and looked down, watching as the cops flood the alley almost as soon as they were gone.

"Tony wanted to talk to me about something," Peter said, pulling off his mask to get a little bit of fresh air. "You coming?"

Matt pulled off his mask as well and turned to face him, a look on his face that said everything it needed to.

"Fin…"

Peter paused as the Quinjet flew overhead. It flew lower than it normally should, skirting above the buildings before it shot upwards.

"Maybe Avery's back," Matt mused, putting his mask back on just in time for Peter to grab his hand again and jump off the side of the building.

Peter tried not to focus on how much easier it was to move throughout the city when the person clinging to him like a monkey wasn't 200lbs of solid muscle and instead kept his sights set on the back of the Quinjet. He swung them around to the side, careful to avoid the exhaust stream. Chunky though he may be, at least Matt was better at landings than both Avery and Gwen combined. They each landed on their feet, side by side, and stood up straight just as the entrance ramp to the jet lowered.

"I think you greatly overestimate how comfortable people are with you doing that without warning," Matt said, pulling off his mask again. He tucked it into a pocket in his suit, done with it for the night now that they were away from prying eyes for good. Peter did the same, ruffling his hair just a bit before he reached back and unzipped the top part of his suit.

"Maybe Tony has snacks," Peter said, waving him off as he stated to walk towards the opening ramp.

"I can't stay," Matt said, following after him closer than he normally would. His lack of sight never seemed to hinder him in expected ways, but he was understandably weary when it came to very large drop into nothingness that was the tower. He placed his hand on Peter's shoulder and walked after him. "I have a case to prep for tomorrow."

"What did they do this time? Kidnapping? Murder? A little bit of light terrorism?"

Matt was quiet for a moment and Peter very sincerely thought he might have guessed right.

"It's just a bunch of parking tickets."

Peter snorted.

They stopped at the end of the ramp, waiting for who was ever inside to pop out.

Two heartbeats.

One set of frantic feet.

He took a hesitant step forward, holding out a hand just in case.

"Steve?"

Peter rushed forward and tried to grab the man before he hit the floor. The man face planted and Steve, the perfect picture of panic like Peter had never seen before.

"Is he dead?" Peter asked, his own panic getting the better of him.

"He has a heartbeat, you moppet," Matt said, holding back to observe, in his own way, as Peter moved the rest of the way up the ramp.

Peter skidded to a halt beside Steve, staring at the man between them. He was about Steve's age, if he had to guess, and was covered in bruises. His brown hair was half-knotted at the nape of his neck, like it had been twisted one too many times and couldn't hold on any longer, and slicked with grease and dirt. "What happened? Who is this? Why is he here? Did you kill him?"

"Peter," Matt chided, finally coming up the ramp. "Steve, do you need help getting him inside?"

"What?" Steve finally looked up, face covered in matching bruises and eyes bloodshot.

"We've got him. You get inside and tell Tony you're here." Steve looked back down at the man, entire body trembling as he took a deep breath. "Steve, go."

Steve hesitated.

"Go," Matt said, more forceful than before. The authority in his voice seemed to be enough to be enough to break Steve out of whatever reverie he found himself in. He reeled back, breathing heavier and heavier as he stumbled to his feet. He threw out his arm to catch himself before he hit the edge of the quinjet. "Go!"

Matt lifted the man's head up, cradling it with one arm as he

"He's…"

"You can explain it all once we get him inside."

"Why are you so calm about Captain America kidnapping someone who looks like a hired goon?"

"Because I'm not a toddler," Matt snapped.

"Do any of you care that I have neighbors?" Tony called, sauntering out to the landing pad. He was holding a bright pink drink that smelled obnoxiously fruity. Swirled with power greens and topped with an umbrella, it was the exact opposite of any Peter had ever seen him drink and he instantly wondered if he had company not named Pepper Potts.

"This is the tallest building this side of the city. What neighbors could you possibly be worried about?" Matt asked, still finding it within himself to snark at Tony despite how their evening had gone from routine to anything but in a matter of moments.

Tony leaned sideways and looked at the man propped up by Matt.

He stared.

He stared harder.

And when Peter was certain that Tony couldn't stare any harder, he managed to find a way.

"Tony," Steve started, voice shaking.

Peter gaped.

Steve Rogers didn't panic.

Captain America did not panic.

"Get him inside." Tony turned around, tossing his drink to the side. He practically sprinted inside, trusting the other three to follow. "JARVIS, open the panic room!"

"He has a panic room?" Matt grunted, hefting the unconscious man a little bit higher so he could move him around easier. "Peter, come get his legs."

"If he has a panic room, does that mean it's time to panic?" Peter asked, watching as Steve stumbled towards the glass doors.

"Just lift him."

"And to think, you would have missed out on all of this if you had stayed home and-" Peter paused, readjusting his grip on the man's legs. "What is it, exactly, that you do all night?"

"Count ceiling tiles."

"Oh." Peter heaved the man a little higher and started to walk backwards, taking on the responsibility of guiding them inside. The landing pad was on a very large platform – and Peter trusted Matt's sense of direction more than practically anyone else – but there was only so much risk he was willing to take and he didn't feel like tearing his rotator cuff trying to catch the two hundred pounds of dead weight currently being swung between them. "Wait."

"Took you long enough."

"Shut up." Peter relaxed slightly when they made it inside. The air was cranked all the way down and Peter instantly felt a shiver run up and down his spine. "But really, who do you think this guy is?"

"He's his best friend who should have died in World War II," Tony said, leaning heavily against the bar. He lifted up a pitcher of the bright pink drink and shook it. "Cat sangria?"

"Oh," Peter said again, nearly dropping the man's legs. "Cool. Cool, cool, cool."

"So cool."


Hi. Not dead. Just stuck on House of the Dragon. I do have a story, if that's your thing. If not, see you next update!