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Chapter 8

Where the Heart is

Manhattan

Steve awoke with a start and bolted upright, bathed in sweat, his heart racing. He could still taste the frozen Atlantic spray from that night, that lashed him like a scourge. The old dream…the final mission of the war. For the hundredth time (or was it the thousandth?), he tried—and failed—to pull Bucky from the hatch of the German bomber. The aircraft exploded, hurtling him to the ocean below, until the water swallowed him whole, stealing breath, body, and life. He relived it for the thousandth time. Or was it the ten thousandth?

He sat on the edge of the bed, shivering. It had been years since he'd last had the dream, long enough to think he'd finally put it behind him...but some pain refuses to stay buried. He did the only thing he knew to do at such times: he got on with the day. Shaking the haze from his mind, he looked at the alarm clock, staggered to see it was nearly noon. Counting the flight from England, he had slept for almost ten hours. This was definitely wrong. He rarely slept for more than six hours a night. A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.

"Just a minute," he called out, pulling on sweatpants and a t-shirt. A sudden sharp pain lanced through his back, nearly making him cry out. His muscles knotted as white-hot needles of pain shot through his nerve endings. There was a second knock at the door.

"A minute," he said brusquely. He gathered his composure, dismissing the pain as his muscles slowly unlocked from spasm. He opened the door, finding his teammate, Janet Van Dyne, dressed in casual slacks and a simple white blouse. Her shoulder length brown hair was pulled back, revealing a troubled expression.

"What is it," Steve asked, his pain slowly subsiding. "Is there a problem?"

Jan looked up at her teammate, who towered above her. Her eyes had the soft, purple-bruised look of someone who had been crying.

"You tell me. My husband is spending every waking hour locked in the lab, and one of my best friends is keeping secrets from me. I think that qualifies as a problem, don't you?"

Wordlessly, he stepped aside, inviting Jan in. She took the chair by the window, while he plopped down on his old army footlocker. As with all full-time members of the Avengers, Steve had quarters here at the mansion. The rooms were small self-contained apartments. By choice, Steve took one of the smallest. He had his own apartment in midtown and rarely stayed over, although of late, that had begun to change. Steve broke the silence.

"So. Hank told you."

"No, as a matter of fact he didn't. I had to spy on him. And even then he tried to keep your secret, so don't blame Hank."

"Jan, you're—"

"No, I'm not finished. This really stinks, Steve. Is this your idea of friendship, of being a good teammate? Hiding something as serious as this illness? Do you even know the stress you've put Hank under, asking him to keep this a secret?"

"You're right," Steve said.

"Because I'd really like to know," Jan said, rambling over his words. "I mean, isn't that what we're supposed to do? Trust our friends? Trust our teammates?"

"You're right, Jan."

"So, is this some sort of macho, 'the hero walks alone' bull? Is the invincible Captain America too tough to ask for help? Well, maybe you are, but what about us? Maybe we're the ones who need to be there for you. Have you even thought about that?"

"Jan," Steve said, putting his hands on her shoulders. "Everything you said is right on the nose. I've handled this poorly from the start, but I'm turning it around, right now. Will you accept my apology?"

Jan buried her face in her hands, a few hot tears squeezing from her tightly shut eyes. She rubbed the sleeve of her blouse across her cheeks, nodding. "I promised myself I wasn't going to cry."

"Good," Steve said, handing her a handkerchief, "because I'm not licked yet."

Jan dried her tears. "This is why I love you. You always open the door for me, and you always have a handkerchief when I need one. Why did men ever stop doing stuff like that?"

"I don't know. Maybe we can start a new trend."

"Maybe." Jan laughed and then took a deep breath. "So, where do we go from here? What's our plan?"

"If you mean long term, I have a few ideas," Steve said, getting up. "But short term? We eat. I'm starving."

"Are you ever not starving?"

"No," Steve said, patting his stomach. "Why don't you and Hank meet me in the kitchen in about twenty minutes? I want to grab a quick shower."

Steve headed to the bathroom, and Jan went to leave, but stopped. She'd never been in Steve's quarters before. The urge to snoop was irresistible. Predictably, the place was neat as a pin, no laundry strewn on the floor, no books tossed carelessly about. Even the nook where Steve did his artwork was orderly. A painting sat on the easel, a half-finished portrait of a woman Jan didn't recognize. She had short golden hair, piercing blue eyes, and was very beautiful.

Jan was suddenly self-conscious of prying. She headed to the door, but paused, spotting a framed display on the wall. Pinned to a velvet pad was the Congressional Medal of Honor, and beneath it, letters of commendation from General Dwight Eisenhower, and President Franklin Roosevelt. Jan shook her head in gentle amazement. Sometimes she forgot her friend Steve truly was Captain America. She headed off to meet Hank, quietly closing the door.

Steve walked into the kitchen ten minutes later, wearing jeans and a long-sleeved green pullover. Most of the above ground portion of Avengers Mansion retained its original, nineteenth century design and décor. The kitchen was an exception. It was as modern and well equipped as any restaurant (with the Avengers, it was often as busy as one). Jan was at the stove, a spatula in one hand, a mixing bowl in the other.

"Jarvis has the day off, so you're stuck with yours truly. How do pancakes sound?"

"Like heaven," Steve answered, pouring himself a coffee.

"Good, 'cause it's all I know how to cook."

Steve took a seat. Hank was working on a laptop, a notepad of scribbled chemical compounds and equations at his side.

"Hank," Steve said. "I've put too much on you. I'm sorry."

Hank looked up, tired and haggard. "I'm the one who should apologize. I couldn't crack this thing. I've let you down."

"Not a chance. I'm the one who let you down. I didn't want to accept the facts, so I dumped everything on you, expecting you to carry the load for me. I ought to have my head examined. Or my ass kicked."

"Well, that thought did cross my mind. Once or twice."

The two old friends laughed. Jan was relieved at the noticeable improvement in Hank's demeanor. The color was returning to his face. Five years ago, he suffered a nervous breakdown, the stress of maintaining his scientific work while being both a husband and a full time Avenger overwhelming him. With time and rest, he recovered, but these past few months had started to feel like the bad old days. Hopefully, that was resolved.

Jan dished out stacks of pancakes, along with strawberries and fresh cream. Steve got the maple syrup as Hank poured a fresh round of coffee. Jan cooked a second batch of pancakes for Steve, which he washed down with a quart of orange juice. At least his appetite was intact, she thought. Hank started the conversation.

"The immune inhibitor didn't pan out. We won't get anywhere until we determine the root cause of your illness. So, are you giving me the green light to work with outside parties? They'll have to know it's Captain America. I can't guarantee the news won't leak."

"I understand. Do what you have to."

"Thank God," Hank Pym said, grabbing his laptop. "I have to get hold of Reed, and coordinate a new course of action. Come down to the lab as soon as you can. I want to run some tests."

Hank headed off, and Steve and Jan began clearing the dishes.

"I guess this is where I start asking my friends for help," Steve said. "There are a lot of people I have to break this news to. Just counting the Avengers, it's a big number."

"Let's see," Jan mused. "We have ten current members, another twenty-or-so on the reserve roster…and maybe two dozen on the inactive list. That doesn't even count our support staff. Yeah, contacting that many people would be a full-time job. Why don't I draft a message, something we can send over the com-link? I won't get specific, but I'll say you're facing a serious situation, and I'll have them contact me for details, run a little interference for you. How's that sound?"

"Perfect," Steve said, kissing her forehead. "I'll finish the dishes, you work on the message."

Jan sat at the table, thumbing the message into her com-link, the Avenger's state-of-the-art communication system. Finishing the last dish, Steve thanked Jan again and headed to the elevators. Within seconds he was at sub-level 4, the biochemistry lab, where Hank was waiting. Steve knew the drill by heart. He rolled up his sleeve and Hank drew a blood sample.

"I couldn't get hold of Reed," Hank said, drawing a second vial of blood. "I'll try again later. Meanwhile, how are you feeling? You looked tired upstairs."

"I had a rough morning, slept for almost ten hours," Steve said as Hank loaded the samples in a blood separator. "I don't think I've slept so long in my entire life. Also, I had a tremendous pain in my back. My muscles just seized up."

"Like with your legs last week?"

"Yes, but much more intense."

"Well, your vitals look good," Hank said, jotting down some figures. "How are you feeling now?"

Steve laughed. "Fine. If I didn't know I was dying, I'd feel like a million bucks."

Hank's face darkened. "This fight isn't over. Not by a long shot."

"I know. Just a little gallows humor."

"Here," Hank said, tossing a small plastic box that looked like a Pez dispenser. "Energy supplements. Each pill contains a dose of vitamins, minerals and electrolytes, plus five thousand calories of high-quality protein."

Steve popped one of the pills, the size of an apple seed, into his hand. "Five thousand calories? In this?"

"You forgot you're dealing with the astonishing Ant Man," Hank said, smiling. "Each tablet is coated with Pym-particles. They dissolve seconds after swallowing, letting the contents expand slowly, so your stomach can handle it. The sensation is a little jarring, but it's perfectly safe. Take one anytime you've gone a long stretch between meals. It's important you keep your energy up."

"Yes mother. I'll also floss after every meal and wash behind my ears."

"Yeah yeah…just follow your doctor's orders."

Steve thanked Hank and headed to the fitness center. Larger than a football field, the two-story facility was filled with a wondrous array of equipment. Spotlessly clean and crammed full of computerized devices, Steve never felt comfortable working up a good sweat here. He preferred the old-fashioned gym in the flight hanger, where he, Hawkeye and Jameson worked out. The south wall was lined with several massive devices of steel beams and hydraulic pumps, designed to challenge the strength of super heavyweights like Thor and Wonder Man. Steve headed to the north end, to the machines more in his class.

He stripped off his shirt and began stretching, flexing his back, arms, and chest. The pain and tiredness seemed gone, but he needed to test it. Dropping to the reinforced weight bench, he activated the computerized trainer.

"All right, Arnie," Steve said, "let's start with 500 pounds."

"Ya, let's do it, Cap!" an Austrian accented voice, replied, as a set of robot arms loaded the bar with weight plates. "Let's have a fantastic vurkout!"

Steve lifted the bar, knocking out ten quick reps.

"That vas too easy—you need more veight!"

"Okay, let's try 900 pounds."

The hydraulic arms slapped on more plates. Steve hefted the bar from its rest, feeling it this time. Again he put up ten reps.

"It's still too light! You can't build championship pecs this vay! Do you vant to max out, Cap?"

Steve thought. His all-time best bench press was 2,800 pounds. That might be pushing it today. "2000 pounds, Arnie. Spot me."

"Fantastic!" the Teutonic voice replied. Steve made a mental note to talk with Tony Stark about toning this program down. He and Stark had been at odds lately. It began with Stark's (tacit) support of the Mutant Registration Act being debated in Congress. It worsened when the act widened to include all persons with super powers. Stark had unquestionably done much good over the years. His financial support was crucial to the Avengers, and his deeds as the armored marvel Iron Man were known worldwide. But like many self-made men, Stark tended to view the world's problems in terms of business, so who better to solve them than the world's most successful CEO? Stark was a good man…but hubris had led many a good man down a crooked path of unintended consequence.

These were problems for another time. Steve focused as the weight was added. Taking a moment, he jammed the bar up. This was a heavy weight for him under any circumstance. He lowered the massive weight with controlled precision, just touching his chest, then pressed it up. It was taxing, but he did it with strength to spare, and so he powered up a second rep.

"Yes!" the trainer shouted. "Give me one more! Go for the buhrn!"

Steve went for it. He lowered the bar again and began to press. At the halfway point the bar slowed to a crawl, his arms trembling as he fought the weight up. Arnie shouted encouragement.

"Come on…what are you vaiting for? Do It!"

With a primal scream, Steve finished the lift and racked the bar, spent. He was breathing hard, sweating, and feeling very good; his strength was still there. He sat up, the robot arms passing him a towel.

"You are an animal! Now let's blast your deltoids!"

"No, I'm done for now, Arnie."

With a nearly human sound of disappointment, the robot powered down. Steve toweled off, pleased; his body was performing as well as ever. Among the benefits derived from the Super Soldier serum was his phenomenal ability to exert himself for several hours before fatigue poisons weakened his muscle tissue. Even then, his recovery time was astonishingly fast. He smiled grimly, realizing just how much he had taken for granted the remarkable engine that was his body.

Steve's next stop was the Holo-Trainer. He stepped into the enclosed room, completely white, and the size of a movie theater, which in fact, it was. The lights came on, followed by a feminine computerized voice.

"Hello, Cap. What program would you like to run?"

"Reflex program 1c. Random adjustment to all variables. Give me a shield."

A holographic model of his shield materialized on his left arm. In a flash, the plain white room disappeared, replaced by a ruined city war zone. Nearly sundown, the smoky skyline was lit by distant fires, casting a red glow. He walked the street, scanning every window, doorway, and abandoned vehicle. A sound came from his right; a shadowy figure lunging from behind an overturned truck. Steve backhanded the assailant, sending him crashing through a storefront window, just as a muzzle flash came from a second story window. He raised his shield as rounds of holographic lead rained down. He leapt the gutted hulk of a truck, using it for cover, but assailants rushed him from all sides; three carrying firearms, the remaining six armed with knives and clubs. He disarmed the gunmen with brutal efficiency, and then dealt with the others.

Twenty seconds, ten assailants down. Steve was untouched.

A piercing scream cut the air, coming from the alley to his right. He ran in, cautious of a trap. It was a dead end, with two avenues of escape; a sewer grate to the right; a fire escape further down. Another scream, and then he saw the woman at the end of the alley, in a pool of shadows, being held captive by two men. The man on the left had a gun to the woman's head, the other, a knife.

"Drop it," the gunman shouted, "or I blow her brains out!"

Steve walked warily down the street. "Tell you what," he said, slipping the shield from his arm. "You give me the woman, I'll give you the shield."

"No closer, man! I'll shoot her dead!"

Steve smiled and inched closer. "I wouldn't try it. The barrel is bent. You fire that thing, it'll blow your hand clean off."

The thug tilted the gun a fraction from the woman's head, flicking a glance at the barrel. Steve launched the shield like a rocket, vertically, slicing through the gun. The man fell screaming, his hand pulverized. The second assailant grabbed the woman by her hair, bringing his knife up. The shield bounced off the wall, down to the asphalt, and rebounded up, smashing the knife from the man's hand. Steve leaped up, intercepting the shield ten feet above the ground, and then crashed down on the thug, flattening him with the shield.

"Are you all right?" Steve asked, turning to the woman and offering his hand.

"Yes.. but you aren't."

He saw the gun in time to duck, feeling the holographic round just miss. He snatched the gun away, dealing the woman a stiff backhand that knocked her unconscious.

"End program," Steve said. The alley disappeared, the white room returning. "How close was that?" he asked, feeling his scalp.

"The round missed by 0.991 millimeters."

"Ouch."

There was no danger of fatality—the computer's safety protocol prevented that. Still, it bothered him that it was a near miss. He couldn't blame it on the illness; it was his own prejudices that were to blame. Women had always been his blind spot.

"How did I do?"

"Your average reaction time was 0.322 seconds, a personal best. You are now second in every category, following only team member Quicksilver. Congratulations, Cap."

"What's Quicksilver's record?"

"0.0001."

Steve laughed. "Well, it gives me something to shoot for."

. . .

He left the mansion quietly, leaving Jan a thank you note on the kitchen table. With his uniform and shield secured to the back of his Harley Davidson 900, he pulled out from the far end of the hangar complex, slipping unnoticed into traffic. At a red light, he grabbed his com-link, checking Jan's message. It was a perfectly worded text, direct but measured in tone. He was lucky to have friends like Jan and Hank. His other messages were mostly routine Avengers matters, but one caught his eye: another call from Ben Urich. The man was relentless in his quest for an interview. Steve admired his tenacity. The light changed and he motored off.

Not really meaning to, he found himself heading to Brooklyn, to the old neighborhood. He hadn't been back in almost nine years. He came often in those early days after reviving, when the world was strange and he felt lost, but stopped once he realized it wasn't helping. This wasn't home anymore, merely the ghost of it. Still, there were some places he knew. Coming to an intersection, he rolled to a stop. To the right was St Mary, his old school, with the playground he remembered so well; different, smaller, but the same. That was the spot where he played marbles, and over there, the field where it was baseball, pretending to be the Babe, crushing one out of the park. The giant maple was smaller then, but it was the same tree where he once had to fight Jimmy Donley for liking the Yankees and not the Dodgers.

He goosed the accelerator, moving along slowly. It was early yet, the traffic light. He turned the corner at Chestnut and Brown, seeing Beth Rinaldi's house. His first girlfriend, the first girl he ever kissed. Across the street lived his best friend, Matty Ellis, but his house was gone now. Steve lost track of Matt after moving to Oregon and heard that he died in the battle of Midway, a gunner's mate on the USS Ohio. Many of the young men he once knew died in that war, too many.

At last he came to Columbus Avenue. He drove up the tree lined street, wondering if it still stood. It did. 1107 north Columbus… his home. He brought the bike to the curb, idling to a stop. It was cleaner than when he last saw it, better kept. It looked so small. His eyes drifted up to the window of his bedroom, where he and his friends traded baseball cards, where he would spend hours reading, drawing and dreaming.

It wasn't always a happy home. His father was a kind man, when he wasn't drinking. More than once he took a hand to him while in a drunken tirade, to him and his mother both. Always the next day came the tears and the pledges never to drink again, pledges he kept sometimes for many weeks, but never for good. One night in the summer of '29, his parents went to visit friends in Queens, leaving him to stay at the Ellis's. His father, drunk, hit a truck head on. Days later, Steve was on a train to Oregon, to live with his uncle Mike and Aunt Penny, orphaned. He had no memory of the funeral.

As he stood lost in thought, someone spoke behind him on the sidewalk. Steve turned, seeing a woman carrying a bag of groceries in one arm and holding a child's hand with the other.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"No, I just...I used to live here," he managed. "Just going down memory lane. Is this your home?"

"Yes," she said, pulling her child behind her. "Me and my husband. He should be home any minute."

"Oh. Well, I won't take any more of your time, ma'am. Take care."

"Wait, are you sure you have the right address? My husband and I have lived here for seven years, and the people we bought it from—the O'Malley's—they owned it for fifty. They didn't have any children."

Steve smiled, wanting to laugh. There was no way to explain this. "I think you're right. This isn't the place after all. Have a nice day."

With a kick, Steve brought the bike thundering to life, causing the boy to squeal with delight. He pulled away without a backwards look.

On the way back to Midtown, he passed a post office, and on the spur of the moment pulled over. Stepping into the lobby, he took a card from his wallet and dashed a note on the back. Purchasing an Express envelope, he mailed it. He'd been considering this for a while, and was pleased with his decision to finally act.

There was a sandwich shop across the street, filling his nostrils with the tangy scent of meatballs. He ordered two footlong subs with everything, and a jumbo salad—all of which he ate in the dining area, to the amazement of the employees. Evening had fallen as pulled into the garage of his brownstone. It was a four-story building, and Steve's was the top apartment.

As he walked into the dark living room, he stopped. Leaving the lights off, he dropped the keys on the side table.

"You've changed your perfume. It's nice."

Sharon Carter stepped from the shadows, wearing tailored slacks, snug, though not tight, coffee brown to match her shoes, and a coppery blouse. Her long blonde hair spilled over her shoulders. At thirty-six, she was even more beautiful than when he first met her, fifteen years ago, at the top of the world. She spoke, her voice quiet, and edged with emotion.

"Is that all you have to say, that you like my perfume? I had to find out about your illness on my own. While you were… over there…with her, I was digging through mountains of SHIELD reports, trying to learn what you didn't bother to tell me. Do you know how much you've hurt me?"

"I'm sorry, Sharon. I won't try to defend my actions… but I was going to tell you. Tonight, if you'll believe me."

Sharon stepped closer. "I'm not angry. Not tonight. And, Steve? I'll always believe you."

He looked into her miraculous silver/green eyes, eyes that saw past his disguises, into the secret part of himself he shielded from the world. He drew her into his arms, kissing her as she pressed her body into his. She pulled his shirt off, kissing his neck and chest, her lips soft and urging, her hair spilling like cool silk against his skin. Taking her hand, he led her to the bedroom, closing the door.