Tipping her head back against the wall, Holly Rogers exhaled sharply. Another day, another doctor's appointment, she was musing silently, her fingers drumming on the arms of the visitor's chair she was sitting in. In reality, it had been about three weeks since her last visit, but it had gotten to the point that she felt as though she were in the hospital every other day, visits to Saratoga Springs a near constant worked in between filing, phone calls, and discussion of the future with her husband. So many things had yet to be decided, worked on, and a lot of them had to wait until after that particular appointment. She'd spoken with her supervisor, was given that Thursday to work from home to look over transcripts after she'd finished with the examination. Inwardly, she was starting to lament leaving the work behind. She would even prefer fielding a call from the publisher at that point, so long as it was something to do. Boredom was setting in, her phone holding no appeal and her book already finished; she wished Steve was there to distract her, or at the very least, was there and bored with her. Conferences had pulled him away, taken him out of state, and so she was left to her own devices while waiting on the doctor. Idly, she rubbed at the swell of her belly, her foot beginning to tap impatiently.
Waiting sucked. It was a thought that bared repeating in her mind, her eyes closing briefly. Within a few minutes, though, the door to the exam room swung open, a whirl of white lab coat and green scrubs proffering a clipped chart rushing by her. Taking a seat on the rolling stool by the counter, she managed a weak smile for the arrival, glad to finally get started as the doctor's pen scratched quickly against the nearest notepad.
"Hello, Holly," Carol Watson greeted her, looking up from the chart with a wide grin. Her light brown hair was combed back, and her dark blue gaze glittered despite the early hour. Gesturing with her pen to her patient, she inquired, "How are we doing today?"
The younger woman barely restrained herself from shooting her a look, a frown threatening to bloom.
'My back hurts, I haven't had coffee in fourteen weeks, and you used the irritating collective 'we' instead of 'you.' Plus, I gotta pee like a rushin' race horse, like always,' Holly growled internally, scrubbing her face with her hands. 'I'm practically par for the friggin' course.'
"I'm fine, thanks," she answered mechanically, sitting up straighter and pushing the slight wave of negativity back. Catching the incline of Carol's eyebrow at the lack of feeling in her voice and face, she cupped a hand in the air. "I mean, well, about as good as can be expected, I guess."
The eyebrow arched higher, but the doctor's smile did not waver.
"You sure?"
For a moment, Holly chewed her lip, debating inwardly about whether or not she should say anything. It was the duty of the doctor to keep up with the patient's health, all forms of it, especially when another life was involved. However, she wasn't sure it was such a good idea to reopen the can of worms that was sitting in the back corner of her mind. After another minute or two, she sighed deeply, deciding to just let it spill. It was bubbling inside her, and needed to get out; she may as well tell the person who had at least a professional interest in her well-being. Fiddling with the ends of her sleeves, she began to speak.
"It's not a physical thing, but it is affecting me. Word's gotten around by now, and...some people are just mean. Not everybody, not the people close to us, but...well, it's not particularly pleasant to hear or read about how some think that you got knocked up because it was the only way to keep your husband around. Among other things."
Work was an interesting experience for her, since she had become visibly pregnant and having switched to clothing that made it obvious. In her department, she was treated relatively normally. Sure, Melanie had gushed a bit, touching the developing swell without permission and sharing about how she'd been so cramped and bloated when she was carrying her son, and Todd had been nice enough to not touch her belly when he congratulated her officially. Curious onlookers had their glimpses, their whispers, but the people in her immediate vicinity were smart enough to keep their speculations and opinions to themselves until she was out of range. Gossip had mixed and ran around her, with some agents guessing at how far along she was, and others wondering if a particular position was needed to conceive a super-soldier's baby safely. The hum around her was neutral, more often on the side of positive.
The public, however, was another matter.
Roughly a week beforehand, she'd been paging through a magazine in the check-out line at the store, killing time as the person in front her unloaded two carts' worth of groceries onto the belt. Steve had been practically bouncing on the balls of his feet with impatience beside her, the bill of his cap tugged lower and lower as they waited. A flick of the page, and there it was, clear as day: a photo of her out in New York a month prior, her coat opened after getting overheated in one of the bridal stores, Sarah facing towards her as they walked down the street. The bump was out for anyone to see, and someone had caught it. Mutely, with a mouth full of sawdust, she showed it to her husband, whose eyes had narrowed and jaw had set upon spying the byline. ("'Looks like a little patriot is ready to march out?' Ridiculous," he'd groused, the cashier glancing at them in sympathy when he'd rolled his eyes. She'd known them as regulars to the store, and commiserated with them over the rag's silliness.) They'd gotten out of there swiftly, but the knowledge that their little insulated bubble had, indeed, popped, sat on Holly's mind. It was entirely different when the pregnancy was up for speculation on a national level, let alone beyond that. She stamped down on her curiosity of what the public thought about it for several days. Once Steve was out the door and on his way to the helicarrier to confer with Fury about another mission the previous morning, she broke. And ten minutes after scouring websites dedicated to the team—there actually was one designated to her marriage to Captain America, specifically—she had started to wish she'd just kept herself in the dark.
Although it generally seemed that the Avengers had decent fans, bad seeds would crop up from time to time. Usually they posted anonymously on a public message board; they were strongly against anybody who threatened the dynamic of the team, who saw non-members as interlopers who distracted them from being nothing more than fighting machines. It wasn't just her who had received hate over the years, she'd noted as she scrolled back to posts that were many months old. Quite a few people had issues with Pepper Potts, with Jane Foster, and even against Bruce's old flame (despite the fact that she'd had nothing to do with him for years by that point). If anybody had any idea that Laura Barton existed outside their circle, she did not doubt they'd spew vitriol about her, too. Either way, it left her sick to her stomach and actually steering clear of the Internet for the remainder of the day; she had never been gladder of getting lost in the stacks at work, letting herself be distracted with missions and works from well before her time.
Carol tutted under her breath, shaking her head in sympathy. "Ouch. That's harsh. Especially when it was done for tax purposes, right?"
The jovial tone of the joke made Holly's mouth lift a bit at the corner, and she shrugged a shoulder.
"I know I shouldn't let it bother me, but...they're talking about the baby, too, not just me," she said, a flare rising and flooding her veins as she recalled the hateful things that were said. Shameful, hurtful things were spoken against her unborn child, and it made her blood boil to contemplate it. Amidst the support, the dark comments bled through, sticking hard in her mind. The baby had been called an excuse, a mistake, a selfish imposition made upon the country's greatest hero by some. It was the stuff said about a child that was literally unable to do anything but grow in her womb that drove her up the wall. Her breaths became shallow and her heart hammered faster in her chest. One hand was spread over her belly, shielding it from the evil just beyond it, and the other had curled into a tight fist. The thumb was not tucked in, the two lead fingers had their knuckles jutting out a little further than the others, and she looked like she was about ready to fire a punch off straight from the shoulder—just as she had been taught.
"That's my baby they're talking about," Holly nearly growled, the fist tightening and her face flushing red. Watson, having observed the harsh shift, was on her feet as the younger woman grumbled, "Those arrogant motherf—"
"Hang on, Mommy," the doctor cut her off, her calm and even tone cutting through the spike of rage that had overtaken her patient. Gently, she reached out, taking up the fist from Holly's lap and carefully patting it. The soothing gesture made her uncurl her fingers, drew her out of her angry thoughts and slowed her breathing. Digging around in one of the pockets of her lab coat, she pulled out one of the suckers she had liberated from the jar in the pediatrics ward. She pressed the stick into her patient's palm with a wink. "I can't let you go around punching out people, but at least you can have sugar. Just a little, though."
Cutting her gaze down to the treat in her hand, Holly's face took on a sheepish cast, the mottled red of her anger slowly bleeding out of her cheeks. Unwrapping the sucker, she immediately stuck it in her mouth without any regard given to the flavor of it. The coat of grape on her tongue brought her down a bit more, and she sagged in her chair.
"Sorry," she apologized after a minute or two, the stick of the sucker rolled between her fingers as she spoke. "Normally, I try not to pay any mind to that crap, but, well, they got me on a good day. Or bad day, I suppose."
They'd caught her at a vulnerable moment, without anyone nearby to support her. She had opened herself up to cyber ridicule when she was on her own. Really, she only had herself to blame for it, she privately opined, and she stuck the grape confection back into her mouth. A palm began to rub her shoulder, Carol's well-meant ministrations going a ways to calm her further.
"It happens," the older woman intoned, understanding in her voice. Though not all her patients had notoriety on a major scale, she had seen them through some major trials of heartache and diffidence very similar to Holly's. In the end, the outer world's judgment would come to nothing. "All that matters is if you, and your baby, are healthy. Let other people whine and scream into the wind."
Once, twice, she blinked, and then she glanced at the doctor, nodding.
"All right, then."
Carol smiled genuinely at her, motioning for her to stand and walk over to the scale then. Climbing on, her weight was measured, with it appearing to be in a good range for that point of the pregnancy. After blood pressure was taken (a little high, but the doctor chalked that up to the residual distress from earlier), she called for a sample cup to be brought it, but it was relegated to the counter for the time being.
"It's about that time," she announced, pleased to see the moroseness in the younger woman's face change to nervous excitement. Leading the way out of the examination room, she brought the expectant mother down the hall to another small room wherein the ultrasound set-up resided. Closing the door behind them, she gestured for Holly to make her way over to it all, the technician in the room already fetching the gel for them. "Up on the table, Mrs. Rogers."
Holly did as she was instructed, tossing the last of her sucker into the trash can by the door before sidling up to the examination table. Maneuvering herself onto it, she leaned back against its slight incline, hiking up the hem of her loose shirt so that the (freezing cold) gel could be spread. The transducer slid over the coating as the machine hummed to life, the doctor dimming the lights and leaving them all in a state of quiet. The screen was partially turned away, the technician concentrating hard on locating the baby and assessing its condition. Minutes passed, the whumping sounds of the machine echoing around them, and then Carol stepped up to her side, asked if she wanted to know about the gender. It seemed that the little one was actually cooperating, unknowingly on full display for them. Nerves snapping, Holly eagerly nodded, hands clenching into the fabric of her shirt as the screen was turned back to her. Squinting, she followed the doctor's finger as it pointed, and the tiniest gasp escaped her lips. She knew, she knew what she was looking at, and she smiled broadly.
Holly just wished Steve could have been there to see it.
"You can narrow down paint colors for the baby's room now," Carol remarked blithely, making notes on the nearby chart and sharing in the apparent joy in her patient's face. Quickly, she requested that the technician begin to print off copies of the sonogram, at least one of which being of the newer, 3-D models.
"Yeah, yeah we can," the younger woman concurred, the barest hint of water at the corner of her eyes. It was ignored, pushed back as she made a request of her own. "Can I get another one for Steve, please?"
"Certainly," was the answer, everything printed off as had been required. Soon enough, towels were swiped at her stomach, clearing it of the fluid so she could proceed to finish her appointment. A final sample was submitted, and Doctor Watson was confident in the progress of both mother and child. Both healthy, both happy, and that was what mattered. Well, happy enough, the younger woman had amended silently, definitely happier than she had been earlier. Her mind was churning, determined to find a way to tell her husband the news. Lighting upon an idea, she found herself speeding across town to one of the few specialty stores, a little extra time taken to make it come to fruition.
xXxXxXx
Another day, another ill-conceived battle between the forces of good and evil. Or, at least, that was Sam Wilson's thought as he swooped down from the sky, his wings retracting as he passed between a couple of concrete pillars. The scan of his goggles showed the red-hot forms of combatants through the thick flooring of the parking ramp, and he shifted quickly to fly down the descending ramp towards them. The team had been at it for a good amount of time, fending off and cornering the enemy.
It had started as a simple meeting, the team heading up to the helicarrier to do an actual, physical check-in with the agents posted there. Fury had been intent on going over several issues, all of which were of a sensitive nature. Midway through the discussions, a call had come in, a representative from Germany crowing frantically over the line. Evidently, a maximum-security prison was undergoing a riot, and several of the inmates were escaping. Generally, such an occurrence would have been handled by police and other authorities in the country, but it wasn't as simple as that. One of the missing inmates, it seemed, was a Doctor Jensen. Steve and Natasha had shared a desperate glance at that news; the woman in question had once been in charge of an outfit of HYDRA, her designs utilized to advance the weaponry of the broken organization. With her at large, she was liable to obtain a good-sized following, given her brilliance and her previous position in the organization hierarchy. Without Strucker or his son to take up the mantle, let along Doctor List, she stood as a viable candidate as the new, titular head. It would be best for them to help assist in locking down the facility, and tracking her down as swiftly as possible. At once, the team suited up and rolled out, dropping down in the heart of Berlin where a good portion of escaped prisoners had managed to commandeer a parking ramp. The attendants had long since hightailed it out of there, leaving the structure to the whims of the interlopers.
The Avengers were not about to have that. Particularly as the intel had placed Jensen in the ramps vicinity.
It definitely wasn't how he wanted to spend his Friday morning (afternoon, in Germany), Sam had grumbled inwardly as they spread out. Nothing for it, he surmised, swooping around a row of parked vehicles in time to see his friend and leader, Steve, being bodily hurled into the side of a truck by several of the escapees. Quickly, he slammed into one of the fellows, a domino effect toppling them and giving the captain time to rise from the ground. As one, the two men worked together, fighting back to back against the ring of criminals. They were burly, strong fellows hardened by years on the inside, armed with their strength and whatever they could tear off the nearby vehicles. Spinning and vaulting, Sam performed an aerial turn, legs fanning out as his wings sprang from the pack. Steve was occupied with ground sweeps, his shield rebounding off a couple of the guys before getting caught in a concrete pylon. When several of the fellow started to advance on him, bearing jagged edges of cut glass from broken windows, the Falcon landed, his spring-loaded pistols freed from their holsters and lodging firmly in his hands. They were undeterred by the spray of bullets that followed, and continued to take swings and jabs.
Their stamina, however, was no match for that of a super-soldier, Steve springing and avoiding them with better ease. Lucky hooks and kicks had landed on him, and one of the fellows had curled an arm around his neck, his other hand positioned and prepared to drive a wedge of glass into the eye-hole of the captain's helmet. Shooting a glance to Sam, Steve snapped the guy's wrist, ducking down in time for his friend to land a firm kick to the fellow's throat. One by one, the enemy was dropping around them, their fight exhausted before too much longer. Soon, the ring of criminals became a grounded ring of unconscious men, having met their fate under the fists of the Avengers. With a final punch crashing into the last guy's jaw, Sam shifted his stance, his fingers flexing to remove the sting of the hit from them. Lifting his goggles, he began to remove the standard zip-ties from one of his belt pouches, getting straight to work as the captain ran over to the far wall. Plucking the shield from its embedded spot, he swung it onto his back harness, the electromagnetic pads locking it securely into place. One hand lifted superfluously to his ear, the gesture meant to signal his intent of tapping into the common comm-line. His boots rang in the space of the ramp as he made his way over to Wilson, ready to aid him in his endeavor.
"Everything locked down yet?" Rogers asked, command in his voice.
"It's all good out here, Cap," was the answer, the War Machine cutting a swatch against the sky as he performed a final flyby. Their compatriots had already subdued the remaining ground assailants, he reported, with the Black Widow cuffing the captured and the Scarlet Witch using her auras to hold any potential escapees in place.
"Alright, call it in," the captain ordered, a fast glance shot over to Sam. Jerking his chin up, he murmured, "We'll meet you outside."
A sudden gasp rattled over the line, with Rhodey immediately shouting down it. A rogue van had broken free of the imposed barriers on the street level, speeding away from the ramp with all haste. As a number of escaped criminals had yet to be accounted for, including Jensen, it could be assumed that she was fleeing the scene at that moment. The roar of rockets tore through the air, the colonel in hot pursuit of it. Wilson stood, poised and at the ready, in case he was commanded to follow as well. Looking for a command, he let his shoulders slump slightly when Steve shook his head. He was needed there, needed to help with rounding up the detainees. Rhodey would follow as far as he could, and report in when he had something. The ringing and screaming of sirens eventually pervaded the air, and the two men got down to work, joining their female teammates once the final criminal was trussed up and brought downstairs.
Gratitude was impressed upon the remaining Avengers as the German police force broke through the barrier, with Steve roughly translating for the benefit of those who did not understand the quickly garbled language. A crackling came over the comms within twenty minutes, Rhodey's weary voice alerting them to the fact that the van had indeed gotten out of his range. He gotten a little too close, having landed squarely on it as he ducked beneath an overhang. As a result, the vehicle picked up speed, dangerously cutting corners and throwing him off at the first possible opportunity. He did, however, manage to secure a tracking device to the hull of it, so SHIELD could monitor its movements and find out where Jensen could end up next. Their intervention as far Germany was concerned, was over for the day, and they were asked (politely, of course) to vacate and return back to the helicarrier for a debriefing session. Cutting into their lines, Fury intimated that his agents would pick up the lost thread from there.
"You were cutting it pretty close there, Steve," Sam murmured, an ice pack placed at his elbow as he sat beside his leader. The quinjet that had dropped them off had been waiting for them just beyond the city's limits, ready to bear them away at a moment's notice. The worst injuries of the lot were allocated to Rhodey, with a major headache and large bruises splayed across his bodies. The others were in various states of injury, with Steve appearing to have gotten a good share of bruising from his bout with the truck.
The captain leaned his head back against the bulkhead of the jet, frowning. "I had it under control."
"Really?" Wilson scoffed aloud at that. Canting his head to the right, he muttered, "That landing didn't look particularly smooth."
Steve smirked at him, little levity in the expression. "Well, you can't expect being thrown into a car to feel like sinking into cotton fluff."
"True, but dude, you've got to start taking better care of yourself. Not just for your sake," Wilson reminded him, a tad acerbically.
The blue of his friend's irises went stormy as he shot him a dark look. He met the gaze with one of his own, not allowing himself to even entertain the thought of being cowed.
"Trust me, I could've been much more reckless," the captain barked back, his jaw quirking as he directed his attention to the far wall. Silence passed between them, the cycling of the jet's engines a distant rumble through the walls. Wanda and Natasha's low conference on the far side of the transport wound along in the background, accompanied by Rhodey's soft snores as he napped. Fingers fisted in his lap, the fingerless gauntlets taut around the skin as he did so. Another minute, then two, and Steve turned back to him again. The storm had not subsided, but the intensity of it had lessened. Inclining his head, he told him, "Look, I know, Sam, okay? I do, believe me. But this is my job. I can't expect the enemy to go easy on me just because...and I'm not going to hold back and not give it my all."
Sam held back a groan. He wasn't implying that he should hold back at all, and he was going to set the record straight on that.
"I get it, man. It's just...there's more at stake" the Falcon reminded him, both of them exhaling sharply out their noses. Glancing around, he pitched his voice a little lower. "She's, what, about halfway through it now? Things are going to start escalating from here."
Now that Holly's pregnancy was publicly known, the world's attention had shifted yet again, sizing them up in the cross-hairs. It would only take one, small, wrong move, and the worst could happen in an instant. He wasn't about to tell his leader how to do his job; honestly, Sam really didn't feel he had the right to. But going at it with the same gusto was not what was called for. It all had the potential to get worse from that point on, and they all would need to be on their guard.
With a forced grin, Sam managed to joke, "None of us want to be the one to face Holly's wrath if the father of her kid goes down, you know?"
Another swift look met his, and the captain dipped his chin with a slight smile.
"I hear ya. And I understand," he reiterated, unclasping the strap of his helmet. Removing it, he let it drop on the bench beside him before leaning forward, his elbows going to rest on his knees. Rubbing his fingers together, he confided, "I've got a couple ideas in mind; I'm not just resting on my laurels, here. Just waiting for the right time."
His friend spotted the clarity in his face, the utter lack of dissembling in his posture, and he relaxed a bit. That was good to hear, the captain having the preliminaries of a plan. What it was remained to be seen, but it would ultimately be better than continuing as before, as if nothing could go wrong.
It very well could, and he didn't want that for any of them.
"Provided nothing happens in between then and now," he couldn't help but spout, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling of the jet and repositioning his icepack delicately.
"Right," Steve agreed, a wince playing over his features. Shifting in his seat, he posited, "On the positive side, at least my spine wasn't busted."
Sam snorted at that, giving him a dry smirk. "Which is surprising, given how often you do land on vehicles and such."
Processing of the detained criminals took another three hours, and it was already late in the afternoon by the time the team departed from the helicarrier. The captain had left Fury with the assurances that the words about Jensen's disappearance would go no further than them, and that the secondary team would keep an eye open on their side of the world in case she did happen to make a blip on the radar. Given the round-up brought in by the team, the director did not have much to complain about, and he let them go with few qualms (not to say he didn't have any; he just chose to air those to his fellow director at the home base, Maria radioing in and holding them all responsible for the tension headache she now had). A short message had been left for Bucky as well, asking him to call in after his current mission ended. Natasha had insisted it be left, and with a spiked eyebrow, Steve had followed through with her request.
The last streaks of sunset painted the sky when the quinjet bearing the team landed back at the base. They all trooped from its confines down to the uniform storage area, each of them more than ready to shed their armor and rest for the night. Some, like Wanda and the Vision, spoke about a new recipe they wanted to try out for dinner that night, and Rhodey departed to catch up with some colleagues who happened to be in the area for the night. For his part, Steve was quick to change into his civilian clothes, eager to make the last leg of the journey home as he proceeded straight down to the garage. It had been a long, (nearly) three days, and he was just ready to be in his house, and sleep in his bed with his wife.
Getting to his truck and opening the driver's side door, Steve blew out a short sigh. Tossing his backpack over onto the passenger seat, he stopped short of getting his shield hooked onto the seat harness. His eyes were riveted to the blue cloth in the center of his seat. It was perched atop a folded piece of paper, neither of which had been there when he'd gone on mission. Narrowing his eyes on the surprise offering, he carefully situated his shield before reaching for the small bundle. Gingerly, he scooped up the cloth, his thumb rubbing over it. The soft article unfolded in his grip, an end of it showing yellow piping along a collar and around the edge of a tiny sleeve. A onesie, his brain supplied the word, a little romper like the ones Holly had looked at online (like the silly one her friend Sarah had sent home with her). The grin on his face overcame the frown; Holly must have left it for him to find, using the spare key to get into the vehicle while he was gone. Realizing that he was holding it backward, he turned it over, more piping revealed at the bottom by the snaps. When he was looking at it fully, he seemed to lose his breath, his heart pumping erratically.
There, ironed on the center of the chest area, were three simple words: Daddy's Little Man.
For several long moments, all he could hear was the beat of his pulse in his ears, and the rush of air flooding his lungs as each word hit home. The wavering grin grew into a wide beam, his free hand snatching at the paper still on the seat. Grabbing it, he shakily opened it at the fold, revealing the ultrasound picture printed onto it. It was one of the 3-D model sonograms, which both fascinated and unnerved him. It was all the clearer to see the little head, arms, and the definite proof of his son's sex on the page. An adhesive note was attached to it, telling him that yes, it was true, in Holly's looping handwriting.
A son. Their son.
It was time to go home. Right then.
It took Steve braking hard to not hit a deer sprinting across the road for him to realize he was driving. At some point, he had put the sonogram picture in his pocket, and he had least buckled his seatbelt, but he was indeed driving, tearing down the back roads of upstate New York at a frightening speed. Nerves and panic swelled inside of him as his brain caught up to his actions, but as the deer had made it to the other side unscathed, he caught his breath and pressed on the accelerator again, determined to get back to his house before it was much later. He'd missed out on the process of discovery, but now that he knew, really knew, he wanted to be with his wife, be at home with her and their child. It wasn't long at all before he was tapping through the dashboard commands, the garage door sliding up as he pulled into the outbuilding. And in mere seconds, his heavy footfall was reverberating across the floorboards, the stairs flying under his feet as he searched for her, for them.
Holly was in the soon-to-be nursery, sitting on the floor and unlocking a corner of the adjustable frame of the spare bed. The mattress was pushed up against one wall (his handiwork, done in preparation days ago), along with the box spring, and the sheets were in the closet. The bed would be swapped with Bucky's in the basement, giving him a bigger option were he to stay in the house again, while the other would go into the storage area beyond the laundry room. Once the gender of the baby was discovered, they had determined they would start actual work on the room, and evidently that night was a good night to begin. As she was occupied with her task, she did not notice him in the door, but she had heard him storming across the first floor and up the stairwell. A tiny smile was on her lips, unconsciously reflecting his own. Eventually, she succeeded in unlocking the corner piece, a triumphant crow coursing out of her throat as she did so. Looking up and catching sight of Steve in the doorway, she jumped a little, a breathless little giggle echoing around her as she rose up onto her knees.
"You got home quick," she remarked, the glint in her brown eyes growing as he crossed the threshold. His smile was still wide, the onesie still in his palm, the ultrasound picture tucked into his pocket. Snickering, she pointed at the little piece of baby clothing. "Pretty good incentive, right?"
It had to have been, given how the truck had roared up the driveway. And how he'd run straight into the house, without his bag or his shield, after parking (he never liked to leave either item downstairs, if he could help it, when he returned home). If she had known he would react in such a way, she would have commanded that the door remained unlocked, so he wouldn't have the digital keypad outside impeding him. As it was, he had come back, and he stepped over the bars of the frame, scooping her up and holding her as tight as he dared. Her toes scrabbled to find purchase on the floor when he hoisted her, and for a moment she panicked, but he had her back on her feet in seconds flat. Fingers wound into her hair, tipping her head back so that his kiss could land solidly on her mouth. It wasn't terribly gentle, but there was a layer of sweetness to his deep caresses, all of which she met stroke for stroke. Soon enough, the embraces slowed, the barest fraction of space coming between them as they stopped, her arms barely loosening around his neck as they stood there.
"God, I love you," he breathed against her lips, another peck dropped before he pulled back. Bright eyes darted from her face down to his hand as he brought it between them, another wave of joy overtaking him as they both stared at the little romper. The hand in her hair slid down to the nape of her neck, the pads gently caressing the skin. Taking another deep inhale, he murmured, "A boy, we're gonna have a little boy."
"Yep," she confirmed, patting the swell tenderly. "I'm preparing to be outnumbered by two rambunctious men."
"Rambunctious," he repeated, eyebrow spiking even as he grinned down at her. "Think that's an appropriate descriptor?"
Her own eyebrows rose, and she smirked. "Would you prefer 'trouble-maker?' Frankly, that might apply better."
Steve tilted his chin up, debating the point mentally before nodding once.
"Yeah, 'rambunctious' sounds better in comparison."
The pair got to work, finishing with dismantling the frame a few short minutes. The rest of the task would be completed the next day, Saturday, before Steve would have to go in and file his reports. In the time it took him to place the onesie and ultrasound picture in a safe place, and fetch his bag and shield out of the truck, Holly had reheated some leftovers, the couple forgoing eating at the table in favor of sinking into the couch and enjoying their repast while watching television. It was when they were halfway through one of the saved episodes on the box when he hissed, arching his back slightly to alleviate the bruising cropping up along his back. Though he healed at a rapid rate, he still was healing, and the pain that had been suppressed from the moment he left the base was finally being acknowledged. Finishing their food as swiftly as possible, it took little persuasion on Holly's part to bring him upstairs, stripping himself to the waist and perching on the edge of the bed while she fetched up bruise cream that was a permanent part of their private first aid kit. As they worked in tandem to get the treatment on his skin (her kneeling behind him on the bed to work on his back, and him attending to his front), he caught a glimpse of the onesie out the corner of his eye, and his wince turned back into a grin. There was still so much to do, he posited, so much to get ready for. With her past the danger the first trimester posed—inwardly, she blessed him for actually reading the pregnancy books she'd found, no matter how graphic they got—and with their boy definitely being a boy, the options were narrowed down for everything. They could get started the next day, even; his reports could just as easily be typed up and mailed in from home, once they'd taken a look around Albany. There had to be some specialty stores there, and it was less likely they would be bothered in a town where they still held a fair amount of anonymity. Holly was touched by his enthusiasm, but a gnawing feeling at the back of her mind was pushing to the fore as he spoke, and soon enough, she had to give it voice or be driven crazy by it.
"Not gonna lie, Steve, I wasn't quite expecting such a reaction from you over this. You were way more subdued when you found out that I was preggers in the first place." A slight huff shot out of his mouth, and she snickered to herself. Whether it was due to her observation or to her use of the juvenile reference to her condition, she wasn't sure, but it amused her either way. Dipping her finger back into the bruise cream, she proceeded to start spreading it on the large splotch spanning across the middle of his back. "Probably would go so far as to say you were shocked."
"I did kiss you then, as well," he pointed out jovially, shooting her a smirk over his shoulder. He took up a dab of the cream on his middle finger, it disappearing around his front and being applied to a nasty one on his abdomen. Despite the wincing, his eyes were still bright. "I was excited, once the...shock, wore off. Still am."
Sure, there was still a healthy layer of fear and uncertainty beneath all of it, and his own inadequacies stacking up in his head as the day drew ever closer, but for the most part, he was excited. The novelty of actually being a parent, a father, had not worn off, and he was glad to hang onto the feeling for as long as he could.
"Obviously," Holly observed wryly. Her smile started to falter as another, less pleasant thought tore through her mind. Slowing her ministrations, her hands fell into her lap and she sat back. At the prolonged quiet, Steve turned around, hooking one leg up onto the mattress and meeting her gaze. Fidgeting with her fingers for a moment, she glanced up at him, nearly whispering, "Is it because he's a boy?"
Steve's brow furrowed at that. He'd heard stories, even back in the day, of some men only wanting boys, only wanting those who could carry on their legacies and the family name. There were some who still only wanted sons nowadays, as well. Personally, he'd thought that to be a foolish mindset. In total honesty, the fact that he could have any child, boy or girl, was nothing short of a rarity in his life, was nearly a miracle. He couldn't let her think he felt otherwise, even though he knew she knew him better than that.
"No," he promised sincerely, his hand coming down to rest upon her knee. Squeezing it slightly, he affirmed, "I would've been just as happy with a little girl. I swear."
Her tremulous grin returned, and she laid her hand over his. That question answered, she still wanted to hear the rest of it.
"So, what then?"
He went still, very still, and quiet, which warned Holly about the serious consideration he was giving the question. Several swipes of her thumb over his skin had to pass before he unlocked his jaw, a contemplative look gracing his face as he formed a reply.
"It's because...I got to know, I guess," he confessed carefully. Off her inquisitive stare, he hastened to elaborate. "My dad never knew whether Mom was gonna have a boy or a girl. Only that she was in a family way. It was impossible to tell before birth back then, as you know. I, I read some of the letters he sent home to her from the trenches. Had to sneak looks at them when she wasn't home; it hurt her too much to even talk about him often. Dad was so excited, so eager to get back and meet me, after she told him. It...it made things better over there, gave him hope for after the war." At that he shrugged, dropped his gaze down. Whether Joseph would have felt the same way if he'd actually met him, figured out how damaged the packaging would be once he grew, was a moot point. "He never got the chance to find out, one way or another. A part of me was...well, worried that would happen to us. But it didn't. I know about our son."
Leaning down, he pressed a kiss to the curve of her stomach. The glimmer in her dark eyes grew, the tears that had started pooling there while he explained himself teetering on the edge of her eyelids. She bit her lip, trying to stem them with physical actions such as that, and with carding her hand through the short strands of his hair.
"That you do," she murmured, a few seconds of fight left in her before she let the soulful truth and the raging hormones tip over. She sniffled, regaining his attention even as she tried to dash the tears away.
Sitting back up, Steve sighed, palms cupping her cheeks and thumbs sliding under her eyes to catch the stray tears that had fallen. "And now I've made you cry."
"Because what you said was so sweet and sad! How could I not?" she gasped at him, sardonic chuckles forcing out of both of them. Her concentration was pushed elsewhere, on something that would not make her bawl. Focusing on one point of his speech, she wondered, "Do you still have those letters?"
He canted his head, brushing away the last streaks of water from her face. "A couple of them. In the red lacquer box, with his Purple Heart."
Her chin dipped, knowing what box he was talking about. The red box, holding some of the most precious items of his life, resided on the top shelf of their closet, having been obtained during the first move to the base. Photocopies of his acceptance and orders for the army were within. The Purple Heart was wrapped in one of his mother's handkerchiefs, pinned to it. The compass with Peggy's picture inside was there, too, nestled atop the chapter of Holly's story that she allowed him to read before editing once. The letters were tucked atop some of their wedding photos, safe and sound, away from prying eyes. Another question occurred to her then.
"Will you...will you ever let me read them?"
Another pause followed, and he darted a look to the left. His little half-grin came to his lips, though the serious glint in his gaze hadn't abated.
"When you're not on the verge of tears," he retorted after a few seconds, snickering when she huffed out a breath.
"Alright. I can't guarantee I wouldn't cry while reading them, though," Holly warned him, acceding to his stipulation. Another sniffle, and she continued, "I mean, they're letters from your dad to your mom. Oh, God...no, the hormones will not win this time."
She started fanning her face, tilting it up to look at the ceiling and breathing deeply. Anything to stop her from crying yet again. When the urge passed, she let her focus fall onto Steve again, his grin taking on an aching air.
"Someday, you can read them, Holl. Just...just not tonight, okay?" he told her, picking at the crease of his jeans. It had already been an emotional evening; one more drop could tip the scale into maudlin territory, and neither of them wanted that.
"That's fine. I can work with 'someday,'" she said, coughing once and pushing away the last remnants of the overflow of her heart. There was enough to ponder that day, and the day after. Someday could wait for a bit. Someday could wait until after the bruise cream was put away, and after she'd given her husband a smacking kiss on the cheek for both his honesty and resumed exuberance for the near future.
xXxXxXx
Peter Parker did not think there was much he could be thankful for after the death of his uncle. One thing he was grateful for, though, was the opportunity given to him by Tony Stark. Though the position had been granted to him based on a small fib spoken by the billionaire (something he hoped his Aunt May never found out about), his role as personal laboratory assistant to the genius was all too real. It was daunting, challenging work that forced his mind into overdrive on most days just to keep up, but it was worth it. It made a lot of things easier for him: school was a little more bearable, he and his aunt had things to talk about in place of the aching grief, and it gave him the chance to improve himself.
He needed to improve things about himself that were still...changing, shaping him. Things that were finally being put to good use after wallowing in pity and sorrow. But those things were attended to outside of laboratory hours, of which he had several that day. Every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, the young teenager would board the train out of Queens, taking himself into the heart of Manhattan, head down and hood up as he made his way to the infamous Avengers Tower. Passing through the back entrance, he boarded and crossed floors with a practiced ease, his security pass and personal codes bringing him all the way up to the private research floors that his boss favored. His camera was relegated to a pocket in his backpack; the views from the upper floors were incredible, but he did not have the time for photography that day.
The first Saturday of the month meant taking inventory of the lab, and Peter was ready to go about his task. Generally, it was something that could take anywhere from twenty minutes to an entire afternoon, depending on the log of project hours Mr. Stark had put in the previous four weeks and what he managed to remember to order himself in the interim. He hoped he would have some time left to himself after finishing; he had his own private projects to attend to, and given how restricted his lab access was, he couldn't afford to waste a moment without it. Punching in his codes, he entered the room, stopping short on the threshold when he realized the space wasn't quite as devoid of human life as he had supposed it would be. The nagging, tickling sense at the back of his mind alerted him, and he did well to listen to it. At the far end, seated on the metal table and deftly avoiding some leftover equipment, sat the billionaire, legs swinging slightly and his handheld blocking his eyes. But not, he could see, the devious grin sprouting on his lips. Confused at his presence (Tony nearly never was in the lab on a Saturday morning, unless he had stayed through the night before), the teen took a few steps into the room, his footsteps echoing as he moved.
"Oh, hey, Mr. Sta—erm, Tony," he corrected himself, coughing to clear his throat. He had long since been accorded the right to address the billionaire by his first name, but his upbringing in regards to how to treat elders was difficult to suppress. Jerkily lifting a shoulder, he inquired, "What's up?"
"Not much," the older man responded, not taking his eyes off his device. "Been prowling around on YouTube for a bit, unwinding. One of the strangest things came up in my recommendations."
Peter nodded, a little nonplussed but not unduly. Eccentricities were the norm for brilliant people, his aunt had warned him. And, in the case of the tech genius, that was most definitely true. Pausing, he squinted at Stark, tripped up by his speech.
"Wait, you have a YouTube account?"
"Yep," Tony confirmed, his lips popping on the 'p' as he nodded. Jumping down from his seat, he strode over to the kid, not elaborating any further on his online accounts. "But anyway, lookie at what has been popping up in this fair city over the last couple of months."
He tilted the screen of his handheld then, the holographic screen projected up. Tapping a finger, he started the cued video, Peter's attention focusing on it. A security camera captured a masked fellow attempting a carjacking. In the midst of it, a blue and red blur literally swung into frame, knocking the fellow off his feet and planting him into the concrete. Stark's thumb dated out, barely giving Peter enough time to register what he was looking at. Dark eyes were riveted to his face as the next video started to play, the blue and red blur swinging in just in time to stop a car from crashing into a city bus. He had to hand it to Parker; despite the rapid paling of his face, he was managing to keep his expression neutral. When the video cavalcade ended, the younger fellow coughed once, ducking his head before stepping around his mentor.
"Hmm. Strange," he muttered under his breath. He wandered over to steel table, ready to find a clipboard and pen. If he could pretend like he didn't know what was going on, that he had no clue what Stark was getting at, perhaps it would be set aside, left behind them. However, Tony was observing him closely, the rigidity of his posture and the determined way he refused to look at him, and he was not about to let it go. Lifting his eyebrows, he adopted a passive expression as he followed the younger man.
"Yeah, 'strange' is one way of putting it," he retorted mildly. Coming around to the opposite of the metal accoutrement, he paused for a second, deciding to change tack. "It's a bit different, isn't it?"
Peter felt the sweat break out on his forehead, his eyes latching onto the table before him as he placed his bag upon it.
"What is?" he attempted to ask in a nonchalant tone, his jaw tightening slightly. Flicking a glance up, he caught Tony shrugging his shoulders, a carefree look on his face while his eyes held deadly intent.
"Oh, flipping steel tables is a lot less work than upending a Nissan. You don't get it quite right, it can fall back on you. Like here." Tony flipped up the video again, tracking his finger over the interface and using it with his thumb to zoom in closer. Playing the video again at half time, he nodded to the screen. "If you'd planted more firmly on your back foot, you would've been fine and not have had to barrel roll to safety after putting it back down."
Silence reigned between them, going on for a long time. The proverbial pin was poised to drop when Peter slowly, hesitantly, met Tony's gaze once more. The desire, the need, to lie and deflect was clear in the teenager's irises, but the billionaire gave the smallest shake of the head, dissuading him from that course. A low sigh poured out of him then, and the older man waited for him to speak.
"…So you've known for awhile, I'm guessing," the boy crooned soon enough, and Tony inclined his head in affirmation.
"I suspected something had happened when you…well." Stark let the comment hang, not willing to go into the trauma and heartache of the night wherein Peter Parker had lost nearly everything, including his own mind. Raking a hand through his close-cropped hair, he continued, "Seemed a little off, even for grief. So I've been keeping an eye on you. Nothing invasive, just...making sure you're not getting yourself lost or something. Pings off your cell phone put you in those exact locations when the incidents occurred, and JJ confirmed it when I looked into it." He tapped his thumb against his pocket, screwing his brow up for a moment. "Give or take an hour for upload times; that website is so finicky."
"I, I…" the teenager stuttered, trembling palms flat on the tabletop and his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. Sensing he was pushing the young man towards panic, Tony stepped back, pocketing his handheld and leaning against the wall. Crossing his arms over his chest, he waited until Parker had gotten control over his breathing, had relaxed his shoulders minutely in the continued silence.
"You weren't going to watch that wrestling match, were you?" he murmured lowly, arching a dark brow. "You were participating."
Peter hung his head, defeat in every inch of his form. No sense in denying it any longer, not when he had been well and truly caught out.
"For college money." The younger man snorted sardonically, his hands curling into fists momentarily. "Which was really stupid."
Tony grimaced. Hindsight was 20/20, but it was best not to comment on that. Not as far as those circumstances were concerned.
"What happened, Pete?" he wondered instead, equal parts disturbed and fascinated by the developments in his protege. Pointing a finger at him, he opined, "Something to do with that illness in November, I bet."
Peter gave him a dour look. It had everything to do with his illness in November, he'd replied grimly. His class had taken a tour at another laboratory, their teacher having wanted to expose them to advancements being made in combining elements of the natural world with manufactured ones. Insects, primarily, were being experimented on, with different forms of radiation and radioactive chemicals being pumped into them. Arachnids were the most stable, and the most wily. During the class visit, one spider had escaped, though it was later found trampled under the panicked steps of his classmates.
However, it had managed to do its work before dying, and it bit him. He was unsure of the logistics of it (something that still bothered him), but the radioactivity and the chemistry of the spider's venom had laid him low for three days. There was talk of actually bringing him to the hospital, his aunt's terrified whispers leaking through his fevered state. And then, suddenly, it was over. The flu-like symptoms he'd developed were gone, and he honestly had never felt better in his life.
That was when the weirdness started.
The tickling sense at the back of his mind when danger was near, the unaccustomed level of strength he suddenly had, the odd film that secreted from his wrist...it took some time to adjust to it. He spent a lot of time hiding out in his room, avoiding his internship hours in an attempt to get himself under control. It was a painstaking process, one which he was still perfecting, but he soon enough had thought he had been given a gift. One that he could use for the betterment of his life.
And when that failed, in his eyes, he thought it could be used instead for the betterment of others. In honor of his uncle's philosophies. Glancing up, he noticed the dark brown eyes before him held no judgment, just patience as he wrapped up the loose threads of his tale. It explained so much, and truthfully, it was a relief for the older man to know it all. At least someone would know what had happened with him, and Stark was a better candidate for the truth than some others.
"Huh. That is strange," Tony said when Peter had ended his explanation, his thumb and forefinger stroking idly at his goatee. Tipping his head to the side, he allowed the barest fraction of a grin to decorate his lips. "But I've seen weirder."
Peter almost smiled back. There was no doubt of the truth in Tony's words, none at all. Still, a nervous twist in his gut forced him to push past it, to inquire after his future. The future that, unbeknownst to him, the billionaire was closely considering on his behalf.
"So, does this mean I've lost my position here?"
The tech genius immediately canted his head in denial, assuaging the fear inside the younger one.
"No, but…we should probably look into a few upgrades for you," he noted, snatching up the teenager's backpack and unzipping it. Upending it, he pushed open the flap that was reserved for a laptop and dumped out the true contents. Specially-constructed canisters attached to cheap arm braces clattered across the table's surface, a flop of blue and red cloth hastily stuff back in by Peter before he could get a good look at it. Yeah, the kid needed a lot of upgrades; actual armor would help, for one thing, in place of the sloppily sewn monstrosity that he had worn in public already. "No need to design on your off-time."
"Really?" That time, Peter gave him an honest smile, in spite of his embarrassment over his vulgar equipment.
Tony nodded, hands resting on the tabletop and his expression turning stoic. "Yeah. This has just opened up a lot of options for you, kid."
Parker felt his heart hammer in his chest, knowing he was on the precipice of a new opportunity. An opportunity that touched the other side of the billionaire's life, a life that he, inevitably, had been made a part of.
"How many?" he wondered, combing over the flop of his brown hair and looking at his boss, his mentor.
Tony's mind turned to the myriad of emails he'd been sent, the reports that had been forwarded to him. Though he had been actively not answering any of Steve's messages, he still took the time to read them. It was implied that, in the very near future, some active changes were to be happening with and around the team. Despite not having been in the field for months, he would still be included in the process when the time came, and he fully intended to be so. His options, Peter's options, played right into his wheelhouse. Taking up one of the crudely-designed canisters, he held it up at eye level, a smirk stretching his lips as he darted a fast look at Parker. Inventory would definitely have to wait.
"You'll find out soon enough."
A/N: ...Yep, it's a boy. :-) Congrats to those who guessed right (digital cookies for you), and to those who thought it would be a girl...well, digital cookies to you for guessing, anyway! And I do think knowing the gender, regardless of what it is for the baby, would be very important to Steve. In this universe, he's going above and beyond his dreams of the past, and even beyond what his own father was able to experience. Being excited about knowing seems right for him, to me.
Once again, I have touched on the Internet speculation that would most likely surround the Rogers and their growing family. My personal experiences of reading about celebrity speculation on the Internet tend to be that some people can be jerks just for the sake of being so. It's too much to expect everyone to like Holly, and she knows that, but it would be tough to read nasty stuff being said about your unborn child. Just imagine Steve's reaction to what's being said by some of his so-called admirers. Yikes.
And a little side-trip back to Manhattan was in order. Those opportunities Tony was talking about in regards to Peter tie in with Steve not resting on his laurels. All of which will come to light, eventually.
I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any pop culture references made in the text (YouTube, Nissan, Marvel Comics, etc).
Looks like I made it in relatively good time this week for the update! Although, I can't say the next one won't be late. I'm just as busy this weekend, but hopefully I'll be able to keep myself on course.
One last thing: I wrote a two-shot about Steve and Holly, and bad nights that they have due to the stresses of their lives, last week. I would appreciate it you all could check it out, if you haven't yet. It's called, "Still of the Night" and can be found in the My Stories tab on my page.
Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!