Okay, I know I have some explaining to do. The last chapter really, really kicked my butt. I must've rewritten it like eight different times and I published two different versions of it, and I was still unhappy with it. (I'm still unhappy with it, so expect it to get rewritten at some point.) I think the problem was this: When I started writing this story, I knew exactly where it was going and exactly how it was going to end. I had an end goal in mind. The first version of the chapter wasn't well received and I realized that the direction that I had been planning to take the story in didn't work with the way it was being written. So I rewrote the chapter in the effort of pressing forward.
I hit a bad case of writer's block (I'm still struggling with it to some degree) because I suddenly had no idea where this story was headed, and I suddenly had no reason to keep writing it because I had no set destination.
I admittedly, kinda gave up on this story for a couple of months.
However, I watched Infinity Wars the other day and it re-inspired me to keep going. (Warning: Spoilers without context, "I don't feel so good." Am I right guys? I, personally, was emotionally unprepared for the full-on David Tennant.) Strangely enough, I walked out of that movie with the inexplicable desire to write a sickfic.
Anyways, I don't plan on giving up the story anymore. I'm still a little shaky on where it's going, but it's starting to come together. A very wise writer once said, "You can't keep waiting for the lightning to strike." No more waiting for random bursts of inspiration. There are like two or three hundred of you guys who've followed this story and I have NO intention of disappointing all y'all by abandoning the story.
With that being said, I'd like to thank padfootl0ve, 10sBlueRose, silverwolvesarecool, monkeybaby, Jre' East (auto correct had a heart attack while I trying typing your username, FYI), Clieo Of The South (whose avatar gave me really unnecessary Lilo and Stitch feels so thanks for that), mormonwolf, Yabas, Nayrsamoht12, Booksnake3, cnocys, Freedom to Rarity, beloved of naruto (I WISH I'D THOUGHT OF THAT, THAT'D BE GENIUS), Unajet, Steefwaterbutter, MugetsuPipefox, Tori of Lorien, Guesty, Guest (you know who you are, you mythic beat, you), Torten300, I Am A Difference Maker, Cloudoffeathers, QuestRunner, WinterSunshine, SPNWizard, Qwertyweirdo, Guild of Scribes, sleepy247, Anon, Bucketoflove, empathy, TeamCaptain2016, mysterious-dragonfly-girl, EmilyF.6, totallynotachicken, Sarcastic Radiation, and Hithere (again, all you anons know who you are) for all of your wonderful reviews. You guys are honestly the real reason why I kept writing so, congratulations, you all successfully guilted me into writing more.
For any of you who actually read this obnoxious block of text, you all should get gold medals.
As Captain Steve Rogers stared up at ceiling and his mind reeling and picked over the events of the last twenty four hours, the one thing that kept dragging him out of his thoughts was the silence. The tiny little apartment was dark and quiet. The lull of traffic outside was so distant that it failed to register. The kid, Spider-Man (Peter was his name?) lay on his bed in the other room, in an almost death-like slumber—perfectly still and peaceful. The reticence of the place was crushing, restraining, suffocating. It was unnerving.
When Steve had first awoken that afternoon, the first thing he'd noticed was that he had no idea where he was. That had sent a wave of panic washing over him, and he had sat up so fast that he nearly punctured a lung on one of his fractured ribs. The terror he'd felt in that moment had been almost indescribable because how long had he been sleeping for?
Obvious indicators—a calendar on the wall, the date and time on the TV, the clocks on both the oven and the microwave—had let him know that he'd only been asleep for a few hours. However, those bastards at S.H.I.E.L.D. had tried to pull that trick on him once before—carefully decorating a room in 40's décor to trick him into believing that everything was still okay, that no time had passed at all. It was a trick that hadn't worked the first time and most certainly wouldn't work a second. However, after a very thorough scan of the room and, unable to find any evidence that he was being lied to, Steve Rogers had finally allowed himself to relax back into the sofa with a relieved grunt.
That was when the pain had set in.
Steve Rogers was no stranger to pain. He'd grown up weak and sickly, and had spent most of his childhood either in bed or in the doctor's office. He'd also been cursed with an acute sense of justice and an intolerance for unfairness and, as a result, he'd spent a good portion of his teenage years covered in cuts and bruises after constantly picking fights he had no hope of winning. (Seriously, Bucky Barnes had been, like, 95% of Steve 'On Va Voir' Roger's impulse control.)
That being said, the pain Steve had experienced that afternoon, mere moments after waking, was exquisite. Cuts, bruises, broken arms, and fractured ribs were all things that Steve could deal with. (Again, like, 85% of his teenage years could be defined by "cuts, and bruises, and broken arms, and fractured ribs".) But it was the wound on his chest that had caused him the most pain.
Running a (non-injured) hand down his wound, Steve had been able to diagnose it almost immediately, simply based on the cold, hard, waxy texture: freezer burn. The skin around the area was bumpy and swollen and covered in blisters, indicating varying degrees of frostbite. Even through the fabric of the thin gauze that was wrapped the wound, he had been able to feel it. He pulled his hand away almost immediately.
Steve had groaned, softly, shuddering, and had brought his head back to rest on the arm of the sofa. He had no intention of looking down at that wound, regardless of whether or not it was bandaged. The mere knowledge of its existence made Steve's stomach roll like waves in an ocean storm.
Steve Rogers was very well acquainted with freezer burn. After waking up from the ice, Steve had spend a good amount of time in physical therapy to recover from his wounds. Luckily, the Super Soldier Serum had prevented his muscles from atrophying, stopped the cold from doing major damage to his vital organs, and had healed a good portion of the frostbite and freezer burn long before he woke, but it left some rather hideous scars in some rather unfortunate places.
The steps to Steve's recovery had been the same as if he had been caught in a terrible house fire; scars pulled his skin tights and restricted his movement. The goal of therapy had been to get them to loosen up. Technology, skin grafts, and the serum had greatly shortened his recovery time, but it had been a painful, arduous process. It was not a process Steve was keen on either repeating or remembering.
After noting the time and the extend of his injuries, the third thing Steve had noticed upon waking, was a voice coming from somewhere in the empty void behind the couch. Grunting as he propped himself up, Steve had been more than a little surprised to see some overweight kid talking to himself in the mirror whilst wearing a Spider-Man mask (it had to be a costume, right? He'd met Spider-Man before and this kid simply didn't fit the description.)
Regardless of whether it was real or just a costume, seeing that mask had brought the disjointed memories flooding back. He remembered the bunker, the doctor, the vials of antigen, getting stabbed in the neck with that neurotoxin—which his body must've still been fighting with, as his advanced healing was taking much longer to kick in than it normally did—he remembered being attacked by three masked crooks, blacking out, and being rescued by Spider-Man, of all people.
That had left Steve with a lot of questions. From context clues he had been able to gather that Spider-Man, after saving his life, brought him home and patched him up. Why? After all, Spider-Man and Iron Man were on the same team, right? So why not turn him in? Why bring him here? Where was the Spider-Kid now? Who was that other kid?
The aforementioned kid hadn't seemed to have any intention of turning around, so Steve cleared his throat and asked, "Hello. Who are you?"
He had learned from the kid, Ned, that he was, in fact, in Spider-Man's home. Spider-Man (Peter Parker was his real name, Steve learned) was back at the Avengers' HQ having his shoulder relocated.
But that had only been the beginning.
After he and Ned had completed the LEGO T.A.R.D.I.S., Tony's assistant, Happy, had arrived, dragging a heavily medicated Peter Parker in tow. Steve had been yanked to his feet (a move which Steve's aching body deeply regretted) and was stuffed into the bathroom to hide. After getting Peter situated into bed, Happy left and Steve was released from the porcelain prison.
Steve, exhausted and in a horrendous amount of pain, took a nap on the couch while Ned had dorked around the house doing whatever he pleased.
He'd woken from his nap to find a thoughtfully prepared bowl of ramen noodles on the couch and a note from Ned explaining that his mother had summoned him home, but that he'd be back in the morning (oh joy.) Ned had also left a series of detailed instructions on how to operate a microwave (modern technology is difficult, after all) in the event that the soup should get cold. It was a kind gesture, and Steve couldn't help but chuckle as he ate his cold, salty, soggy noodles.
Initially, Steve had been relieved that Ned was gone. Despite being on the tail end of an illness, Ned had been full of energy and hadn't hesitated to bombard the poor, ailing captain with a plethora of (somewhat inappropriate) questions.
However, now that there was no background noise, there was no barrier between Steve and his thoughts. They tossed and turned in his head like a litter of hamsters thrown into a washing machine. When he finally couldn't bare it any longer, he eased his legs over the side of the couch and slowly rose to his feet.
"Damn," he muttered softly, bringing a hand to his head in a vain effort to stave off a sudden spike of pain.
Slowly, Steve made his way to the wall, and leaned against it for support as he shuffled towards Spider-Man's room.
He really was just a kid.
Peter looked so… small. He was crumpled up on his bed in a pained heap, his face pale and ashen and his breathing shallow and ragged.
Those goons really roughed him up. Steve thought to himself. I really roughed him up. He added bitterly, memories flooding back from his fight with Stark in Germany. At the time, Steve thought Spider-Man sounded a lot like a kid but seeing him there, curled up in bed, maskless and vulnerable, he couldn't help but feel guilty for trying to rough him up.
With a heavy sigh, Steve returned to the couch and stared up at the ceiling once more.
It was nearly 9 o'clock at night when Peter finally woke. His head was pounding and his shoulder ached, but it was nothing compared to yesterday. Groaning, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and carefully stood up, swaying as the room tried to invert itself. Slowly, slide-dragging his feet across the ground, he made his way into the kitchen. He grabbed him self a glass from the cupboard and turned on the tap, letting the water run for a moment to get cold. He groaned, grasping at the sides of the sink, as a headache suddenly spiked behind his eyes. He felt like his brain was trying to alien his way out of his skull.
"Chocolate will help with the headache," a voice called from the couch.
"Hmn?" Peter asked, lifting his head and squinted to see who spoke.
Captain America. Steve Roger. Crap. Right. He forgot about that. Immediately, Peter straightened. "Captain Rogers!" Peter cried in recollection, then doubled over as another wave of pain washed over him.
"Careful, kid. You're gonna make yourself sick," Steve chided, sitting up a little to get a better look at the kid. The poor thing looked absolutely miserable, which was unsurprising considering the extend of his injuries.
Steve couldn't help but chuckle. He knew exactly what the poor kid was feeling. "Got any chocolate?" Steve asked.
Peter, rising again and shutting off the tap, blinked at the Super Soldier and had to think for a moment. "Yeah," he said with a nod, then retrieved a Hersey's bar from the bottom shelf in the pantry. Slowly and wincing from the pain the movement elicited, he made his way over to the couch and held the candy out for the Avenger to take.
Steve looked a little confused and shook his head. "Not for me. You eat it. It'll help. C'mere and sit down. You look beat," he said, gesturing to one of the chairs around the coffee table.
Obediently, Peter sat down. "I look beat? You should look in the mirror," he said with a tiny, cheeky smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
Steve snorted. "Yeah, but I'm used to it, kid. It's kinda my job. You on the other hand—"
Peter raised an eyebrow and Steve closed his mouth. He had a lot of strong feelings about Tony bringing a kid, a fifteen year old kid, out onto the battlefield. But then again, the kid wasn't exactly trying to keep himself out of trouble. Spider-Man was big news in the Queens. It wasn't as if Tony had gone out and plucked any random kid up off the street and demanded he learn how to fight. Peter was Spider-Man before Tony Stark showed up. Spider-Man was Peter's creation, not Tony's.
Besides, Steve was exactly the same way when he was Peter's age; standing up for the little guy, fighting for what was right, and never backing down. The only difference was, Steve never won those fights. Either Bucky would come to the rescue or he'd wake up in some alley with a little less blood than he'd stared out with. Mind you, that didn't stop Steve Rogers from picking fights with every damn mouth-breather on his side of the Brooklyn Bridge.
Besides, Peter saved his life last night. He really had no right to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Steve shook his head, voting to abandon his argument. "So, how does a kid like you end up in this line of work?" he asked.
"I got bit by a fancy spider and the next day I accidentally ripped the door off of its hinges, " Peter said with a sheepish shrug.
That made Steve smile. "Y'know, the funny this is, the same thing happened to me," he said, remembering how he accidentally ripped a cab door off of the frame before throwing it at some petty thief like it was a frisbee.
"That was the hardest part to get used to. It was so weird! For like a week, I kept breaking things because had no idea how to function, any more," Peter explained, brightening at the conversation.
Steve nodded, humming in affirmation. "That's how I felt too. I had to relearn how to do everything,"
Peter nodded vigerously. "Right? Like opening doors and squeezing toothpaste and pulling clothes off of the hanger. Y'know I kept hitting myself in the face with stuff because when I would go to pick it up, it would be way lighter than I was expecting!"
"The same thing happened to me, too," Steve said with a nod.
"Aunt May and Uncle Ben thought I was on drugs or going through some sort of teen angst phase," Peter hummed.
Steve frowned, suddenly, narrowing his eyes in surprise. "You didn't tell them?" he asked.
Peter shook his head frantically. "What? No! No way! They'd take me to the doctor or something and I didn't want to get studied and dissected like a rat. Besides, I didn't want to worry them,"
Steve sat up a little more. "And they still don't know?"
Peter shook his head. "No, Aunt May knows. She found out on accident and kinda flipped out," he said, wincing at the memory. Suddenly, his expression turned sad. "Uncle Ben though… He… ah… He passed away," he said quietly, averting his eyes to the floor.
Steve's gaze softened. "I'm so sorry. What did he die of?" he asked.
Peter was silent for a moment, wrestling with the difficult memory. "He got shot by a robber. That's, uh, that's why I wanna be a super hero so bad. 'Cause I could've save him but I didn't. I've got the powers, I've got the responsibility," Peter sucked in a deep breath and puffed out his chest as though steeling himself to a grim resolve.
"Hey, kid?" Steve began softly. "Er—Peter, right?" he asked. Peter's head snapped up and Steve smiled. "Sorry, your friend kinda outted you," he explained.
"Dammit, Ned!" Peter groaned, tossing his head back. Then, glancing worriedly back at the All American boy scout, Peter corrected himself, "Um, I mean, dang it,"
Steve couldn't help but roll his eyes (back in the army, Steve and Bucky had been quite a pair of gutter-mouths after all) but followed that gesture up with a simply shrug. "Hey, it was bound to happen. What, did you expect to wear that fancy suit around all the time while I was here?" he asked with a smirk and Peter merely grumbled in response. Truth be told, he hadn't exactly thought that part through. Peter was never really big on planning ahead or thinking things through.
Sighing, Steve put a hand on the kid's shoulder. It was a very paternal gesture that made Peter feel a little excited, a lot starstuck, and a little sad. "Listen, Peter, this is very important. You don't have to hold the world up on your shoulders, okay? Sometimes, bad things are gonna happen that you can't stop, no matter how hard you try, and that's okay. It's okay to mess up, to fail. It'll hurt, but… Peter, you can't be God. You can't hold yourself to that level of expectation, it'll kill you. It's way to big of a burden to carry on your shoulders, especially alone,"
Peter sighed, fidgeting with his hands for a moment, unsure of how to respond. Aunt May had told him the exactly same thing on numerous occasions, and Mr. Stark sometimes said stuff that could be vaguely translated into that same message. "I know," he said with a little sigh. "I mean, like, I know all that stuff logically, but it's really hard to actually believe it, you know?"
Steve nodded sympathetically. "Yeah, I definitely know the feeling kid," he said gently.
Peter narrowed his eyes. "So what do I do about it?"
"Well," Steve began thoughtfully. "In my own experience, it's not really something you can convince yourself,"
Peter blinked, confused. "Huh?" he asked. Clearly that was not the answer he was expecting.
"You've gotta talk about it. Talk it through with other people. You need a team, Peter. People who will listen and help shoulder the burden," Steve couldn't help but feel a little sad for a moment. After all, that's why he and the Howling Commandos were so close. …And why the Avengers never achieved that same closeness.
Peter sat up sharply. "Like the Avengers?" he asked. His eyes practically filled with stars. "Are you asking me to join the Avengers?" he asked, nearly shouting in excitement. Then, Peter winced and deflated, remembering that Oh yeah, Captain America isn't part of the Avengers anymore…
Rubbing the back of his neck and trying to bypass the awkwardness, Peter said sheepishly, "Sorry for bringing up all of this stuff, Mr. Captain Rogers,"
"You can just call me Steve, kid," he said. Seriously, what was up with the youth of today? Why were they so weirdly polite?
There were those stars in Peter's eyes again. No wonder he and Ned were friends. They were practically the same person.
Relaxing back into the couch, Steve gestured to the still-uneaten candy bar that was slowly melting in Peter's hand. "Eat your chocolate, kid. It'll help you feel better,"
Peter blinked. "Oh yeah!" he exclaimed and greedily dug into the candy. He paused, only for a moment, to comment on the completed LEGO T.A.R.D.I.S. "Aw, you guys built the whole thing without me?"
As for the future of this story, I promise it shouldn't be a terribly long time, as I know what's happening next. Let's just say, considering that it's Saturday night and Aunt May's coming home Sunday morning... y'all can expect to see two tiny little teenagers frantically trying to hide a 6'2", 220 lbs super soldier in an itty bitty apartment.
I also feel like we should get Steve some clothes because I'm pretty sure he's still in his boxers.