Peter Parker waited at the front desk, hands balling nervously in his pockets as he waited for the orderly to complete her call. Idly, he reached up to scratch at the back of his neck, dutifully avoiding touching his eye. Due to his exertions during the United Nations crisis, he obtained a black eye, the bruise spreading from brow to cheekbone (a sucker punch that one of the armed soldiers managed to land when his fellow had distracted the boy). As the worst of his injuries, he had been told to leave it be, under no uncertain terms. He just wished it would heal, already; it was bad enough when his classmates stared at it—Miles, one of the guys in his accelerated science course, had gawked and questions as to what happened spilled over while they were attempting a lab experiment. Though he could be fobbed off with an excuse of being jumped outside of the subway over the weekend, Peter didn't think that the staff at New York-Presbyterian could do the same. The sooner he could be granted visiting access, the better.
After the last of the soldiers were being rounded up and detained, he had been directed to go home. At first, he had refused, too intent on finding the captain again and discovering his condition to do so. However, both Tony and Bucky were adamant about his returning home; there was nothing he could do for the captain, unless he happened to excel in surgery as well as computer building (Tony's words), and it would serve his interests better to let it be handled by professionals (Bucky's admonishments). Chagrined, he accepted their conditions, Mr. Lang being deputized to take him to Queens as soon as possible. After taking time to change—Peter and Scott had gone to the Tower, the boy finding his clothes and the man availing himself to Stark Industries-branded sweats and a jacket taken from employee storage—they'd boarded the train, the pandemonium of the city bleeding off the farther away from the epicenter they got. Aunt May had greeted them at the door, a curt thank-you given to Mr. Lang before she dragged her young nephew into the house. Scott was the lucky one, able to bail out immediately and avoid his aunt's wrath. Still, even after she berated him for not coming home as she had asked, for risking his neck as he had, she embraced him, hard squeezes of her arms punctuating that he dare not do something like that again before she fetched him an icepack from the freezer.
The Monday after the attack, May had called the school, a sick day granted to help take time to heal and recollect himself. That Tuesday, though, he had gone back, and he had struck a deal with his aunt so that he could go searching for the hurt captain. His location had not been divulged to the public; indeed, the general consensus was that the Avengers were either recuperating outside of the city, or had come through unscathed. He knew for a fact that was not true, and so he had emailed Tony for details. The single hospital name, the one on the Lower East Side, had been sent back, and he was determined to follow through with his original intent.
The orderly finally ended the call, passing along the word that he was granted permission to see the patient up on the third floor. May, who had accompanied him inside, nodded at that, urging him to go and reiterating that she would be waiting for him to return. Promising to not take too long, he followed a nurse to the correct floor, her directions bringing him to a room at the end of a hall. Some SHIELD agents were posted along the floor, radios and comms crackling as he passed by. His nerves spiked as the nurse told him to use the call button in case there was anything either of them needed. Swallowing hard, he knocked at the panel, the voice within beckoning for him to come in shortly afterward. Wary of all the people in the hall watching him, he quickly did so. Shutting the door behind him, he inhaled sharply. Captain Rogers was upright, the hospital bed inclined to support him. The older man had a bruise over his eye as well, though the swelling and discoloration were not quite at his level. The obvious split in his lip was nearly healed, as well as the cut or two along the fellow's jaw. A thick bandage was wrapped around his arm, and beneath his issued t-shirt, the clear outline of another was wrapped around his chest. Wires trailed to a heart monitor off to the side, and IV drip connected to him as well. His hands rested in his lap, one wrist encased in a cloth brace and the left hand splinted, a book perched beneath them. Despite the evident fatigue and the minor winces in pain as he adjusted in his seat, the captain no longer appeared to be on death's door. Something inside Peter relaxed, even as a bitter kick accompanied it.
"Hello, Peter," the captain greeted him, a wan smile coming to his lips. Attempting to return it, the teenager approached him slowly, a hand waving superfluously.
"Captain Rogers, I—" he started, only to be cut off by the older man's gesturing palm.
"I think by this point you've earned the right to call me Steve, kid," he intoned, blue eyes glinting as he motioned for him to sit in the nearby visitor's chair. Hastily, the boy took the seat, discreetly wiping his palms along the sides of his jeans. A part of him was wondering if perhaps he should not have presumed to go there; after all, the captain—Steve—was healing, and probably did not want to be bothered by him. By the kid who had caused some significant trouble in the last few weeks. However, when the blond man did no more than grin at him and tap a thumb along the spine of his book (a hardcover copy of Dracula), he eased himself into calm, relaxing a bit in his chair.
"Steve. Um, hi," he returned belatedly, picking at the outside seam of his pants. Lifting a shoulder, he murmured, "I hope you don't mind me just barging in like this. Wanted to know how you were."
Steve shook his head at that. "Don't mind at all. It breaks up the monotony of being here. I'm sore, stitched up, but otherwise alright. How are you?"
Unconsciously, Peter reached up, a fingertip trailing under the edge of the shiner. That was a good question, one that he wasn't sure he really knew the answer to. But he did have an answer to give, at least verbally.
"I'm, I'm fine," he tried to reassure the older man. Off the spiking eyebrow and curious glance, he shrugged again. Dropping his gaze to the rail of the bed, he muttered, "You know, except for..."
The captain's brow furrowed, and his back stiffened a bit. "What?"
Caught out, it took Peter a few swallows and picking at the creases in his clothes before he could answer properly.
"Nightmares. Been having them since..." he trailed off, sniffing a little as a rush of red bloomed on his face. Hesitantly, he raised his eyes again, looking directly at the man in the bed and inhaling deeply. "And seeing what happened to you, it reminded me of, well..."
Steve felt a flush of sorrow rush through him. He could well imagine the cause of the nightmares. Nightmares no fifteen-year-old should be having, but was according to his own word (and the dark circle like a second bruise under his uninjured eye).
"Tony told me about your uncle's passing," he murmured softly, causing the boy to look away. It had come as part of his explanation of Peter's presence at the trials, but he had not had the chance to express his sympathy until then. "I'm sorry."
Peter shrugged, stared down at his shoes. "Wasn't your fault."
For a long moment, blue eyes latched onto the bowed form of the teenager, observing and spotting things that were not stated, not spoken of.
"It wasn't yours, either." A cut-off scoff was the reply, and Steve waited until he looked up again. "Son, I know what guilt looks like. I know what it's like to feel as though you should've acted faster, differently, to things you had no control over."
Unable to refute that, unwilling to doubt that he spoke the truth, it still took the teenager some time before he could think of something else to say.
"My aunt says this has all reopened old wounds or something, wants me to see a therapist," he confessed, raking a hand through his hair. A wry snort shot out of him, and he elaborated, "Well, after she was done screaming about what I'd done in the first place."
"She's just worried for you. For good reason," Steve reminded him, a sigh pouring out of his nose. Leaning back into the pillow behind him, he cast a rueful glance up at the ceiling, and his mouth curved sardonically. "I imagine she didn't have anything better to say about us letting you stay, either."
"No, but she's chilled out since then. Enough to drive me around to see you guys. And after I promised to think about therapy," Peter said, the terms and conditions of his arrival laid bare. Wrapping his arms around his torso, he couldn't help the minor edge of defiance in his tone, the hunch of his back. "I don't, I don't want to, but I know I should."
The captain inclined his head; that was something else he was all too familiar with. "It's tough, but at least it's more acceptable to see one nowadays. And it does help."
The boy's dark eyes flew up, meeting his steady gaze with surprise.
"You?"
Steve let his lips curve again, his head tilting to the left.
"Yep. It's almost a requirement when you're involved with this team, in any capacity," he jested, inviting the teen to see the humor in the truth. A form of relief trickled through him when the kid smirked back. "Tony still sees his, too, I think. It's like going to any other doctor, Peter. It helps you heal."
Peter let his frustration show, the frustration that had been mounting since his aunt first suggested the idea. His frustration, and his fear.
"But who could I talk to that won't, that won't...tell everyone who I am?" he asked, his voice almost dropping to a whisper on the last words. Ah, the crux of the matter had come to light: seeking treatment would expose him, expose parts of his life that he felt he could not afford to expose. Steve could understand his reticence, knowing full well that the teen was not in any way ready to unmask himself as the Spider-Man. It was all too new, still, and he was still adjusting to his new status and responsibilities. Maybe a few years down the road, he would be comfortable enough to let the fear go, but it was unlikely that such a thing would happen. While therapists were required to abide by doctor-patient confidentiality, there weren't many that could handle taking on a patient with abilities and issues such as the ones Peter had.
That wasn't to say there weren't any out there, though.
"It depends. If you wants someone close to home, then I would recommend seeing if Tony's doctor could take you on as well. Mine, too; he has an office in Midtown now," Steve said, considering the choices at hand for the young man. Clicking his tongue, he also ventured, "Or, you can talk to Maria Hill; she can connect you with the department at the base, set up video sessions with one of the therapists there. Those are a few options."
A full minute passed, the visible wrestle with his feeling obvious on Peter's face as he mulled over all that the captain had intimated. Then, after closing his eyes and taking a shaky breath, he reached into his pocket, tapping at his smartphone and pulling up an application. Turning it and holding the screen out towards the older man, he could see the opened file to attach a new contact there.
"Okay," Peter conceded. "What's Ms. Hill's number again?"
Taking the proffered phone, Captain Rogers punched in the number for him, the new contact file made and ready for when he was willing to use it. He did not promise to set up any appointments immediately, but he would go over the choices with his aunt first. Likely, he would have to wait until he at least back on an even keel with his schoolwork. The end of the year was coming up, and he didn't know if he could take the time in between projects and papers to do so. The captain lightly ribbed him for being able to accommodate his other extracurriculars, wondering how he would be able to fit crime-fighting in there as well. The younger man smirked, going on to explain how he intended to catch up on all that during the summer. Between the two, it was plotted out that he would come up to the base for a week, do another training reassessment and establish a firmer schedule around his times at the Tower to do so. Several minutes passed, and then the door was creaking open again. Wondering if a nurse had decided his visiting time was up, the teenager turned, his wariness deflating as soon as he saw the woman poking her head through the door.
"Am I interrupting? Because I can come back later," Holly Rogers said, her smile growing as her gaze flicked between the two males. It had been a long time since she'd last seen Peter, and despite the black eye, he was looking okay. Spotting the curious glance being shot at his injury, the younger man cleared his throat, looking for a way to circumvent the eventual line of questioning.
"No, of course not. Hi, Missus Rogers," Peter started, flapping his hand and bidding her to come in. Steve grinned, a hello passed to his wife as she entered the room fully, one arm crooked behind her back. Rising from the chair, Peter felt his brown eyes widen as they strayed to her belly. "Woah! You're...I mean, I heard the news, but I mean..."
Chuckling, Holly laid her free hand on the prominent swell.
"But it's obvious, I know," she stated, striding towards the boy as he fidgeted with the phone in his hands. Patting his shoulder, she continued, "It's good to see you, Peter."
Shyly, Peter smiled back at her, the strain in it unnoticed as he tapped her fingers with his.
"Yeah, um, it's good to see you, too."
"Parker's here to check up on me, via Tony's requests," the captain told her smoothly, not batting an eye as he covered up for the young man's presence.
Her eyebrows inclined at that, and she snickered. "Because he doesn't call you enough?"
"He wanted something more along the lines of in-person verification," he explained, watching as she strolled over to the rolling tray and placed the bag she had been hiding behind her back upon it. As she pivoted away, Peter darted a glance to the older man, to his wife and then back again. Minutely, Steve shook his head; for the moment, his secret was safe. Clearing his throat, the captain sat up a bit more, hands splaying over his book as he took note of the bag. "Please tell me you brought something edible with you."
Laughing outright at his eagerness, Holly reached into it, withdrawing a family-sized bag of M&M's.
"Contraband for the prisoner," she affirmed, sliding it back in with the rest of the goodies she'd brought. Scratching the back of his neck again, the teenager took that as his silent cue to leave, and began edging towards the door. He'd been there for nearly an hour by that point, and he did not want to intrude on any private time the captain would want with his wife. As he stepped back, Holly held up a preemptive hand. "You don't have to go, Peter."
"Thanks, but I've gotta head out," he said, his head tipping towards the door. "My aunt's waiting for me, gotta run a few more errands before I, um, report in."
His hand rested on the handle, and he paused before opening it, looking back at the pair.
"Listen, I know it's gonna be awhile, but if you want, I'd be happy to do some six month and one year pictures for the baby," he offered, a grateful smile curving his lips. It wasn't much, but it was the least he felt he could do for them. "No charge."
Holly shared a look with her husband, thoughtfulness overtaking her expression. "That's sweet of you. We'll let you know."
Steve nodded, the gleam in his eyes softening somewhat. "Take care of yourself, kid."
Taking the meaning in his words, Peter nodded once. "I will. Bye."
Once the door snapped shut behind him, and he was truly out of earshot, Holly turned to look at Steve.
"Is he okay?" she asked, gaze flicking towards the hall and back. It was impossible not to notice the tiredness in the young man's form, let alone the clearly visible injury on his face. Steve chewed the inside of his lip for a second, rubbing a thumb along the cover of his book.
"He will be. Eventually," he replied, glancing up at her. Lifting a shoulder (carefully, so as not to disturb his own wounds), he went on, "Beyond that, can't say much else without his consent."
Curious and suspicious as she was, Holly could see the unyielding glint in her husband's gaze, and for the moment, she chose to let the matter drop.
"Fair enough."
He dipped his chin, his avid blue gaze running over her. Once again, her back was to him, and she was shuffling around in the plastic grocery bag, the minute rip and tear of something within followed by a light, metallic clink. The last few days, they had been almost inseparable, with her at his side for as long as the visitor hours allowed her to be. Until she was required to leave, spending her nights at the Tower and recovering for the next day. Still, that hadn't erased the tightening in his gut, the examination of her form when she wasn't aware of it. He was being taken care of, but he was more worried for her.
"And are you?" he asked, the concern within not masked in the least. Her shoulders tightened almost immediately, and her shuffling stilled.
"I'm fine, thanks." Looking at him over her shoulder, her features hardened a little. "I'm not going to melt into a puddle of mush."
Slightly abashed, he muttered, "I know, but—"
His explanation was stopped as Holly pivoted to face him again, one hand landing on the rail of the bed and the other cupping the air.
"Steve, I get it. But you need to stop," she said plaintively, shaking her head. It had been hard enough, confessing what had happened right after she'd been brought to him, but it was not as difficult as dealing with the fall-out. In true Rogers fashion, Steve had taken the news as a sign that he was doing poorly, that he had not protected her to the fullest extent of his abilities. He'd started watching her like a hawk, and would do everything in his power to make certain she was alright, even if he could nothing physically. On certain levels, he'd indicated, he could be blamed for bringing the overwhelming state on her in the first place, but she was not having any of that argument. Groaning, she reached out, framing his face with her hands, urging him to look at her and listen. "I had the panic attack; it was me, all me. Yes, I was scared witless by what happened, and yes, it got the better of me, but it wasn't something you did to me. It wasn't your fault. Okay?"
His face creased, and she knew he was winding up to speak, to argue his point again. However, it was something that had been labored over enough for the time being. She had already scheduled an appointment to speak with the therapist, and she did not want her husband to blame himself anymore. Bending, she softened her words with a kiss, pressing against his lips long enough to feel him start to melt into the embrace. Once he'd relaxed, she pulled away, the pads of her fingers brushing along his cheek and her dark eyes staring in his.
"Say it," Holly said, her tone low and brooking no refusal. Steve's shoulders tensed up again, and his brow furrowed. Inhaling deeply, he let it out slowly through his nose, blinking a few times before he opened his mouth.
"It's not my fault."
One more kiss, and she stepped back, her hands falling away from him.
"Good," she breathed, bracing against the arm of the visitor's chair and plunking down into it as gracefully as possible. "Now, if you'd just believe it, that would be even better."
Steve shot her a glare. "Holly."
She held up a hand, palm out in a gesture of surrender.
"I know, I gotta pick and choose my battles," she muttered, shaking her head. Resolutely, she squared her shoulders, gripping the rolling tray and pulling it closer to the bed. Nodding to the bag of foodstuffs she'd smuggled in, she said, "Meanwhile, I brought you treats; you should be focusing on that."
Rolling his eyes to the ceiling for a moment (and failing to hide the edge of amusement in them as he did so), he placed his book on the tray, snatching up the bag and going through it. The M&M's were plopped into his lap, followed by a few other candy boxes. A new sketchbook had come out as well, along with a cheap mechanical pencil and graphite for it ("I couldn't get over to that specialty art store you like here; traffic was insane today. Had to settle for Target," she explained sheepishly, while he merely tutted and exclaimed that he appreciated it nonetheless). Amidst the other snack that had come to hand, a thin chain tangled around his fingers. Pulling it out, he noticed the bar-code holder had been removed, and his wedding ring had been put on it. With his left hand still mostly taped up, she figured it was the best way for him to still be able to wear it. The small grin on his lips faded as she helped him loop it around his neck. He recognized the treats for what they were, and he sighed.
"You go back tomorrow, right?" Steve asked, trying to sound nonchalant while a little sadness crept into his eyes. Catching it, Holly coughed once.
"I'm all out of clean clothes here, hon," she joked, earning the barest smirk in response. Puffing out a breath, she told him, "Yeah, I'll be catching a jet back with Maria after stopping here first. She wants to get everything back in order, starting with the base's operations. I've gotta go if I want to keep my job. And our house."
The base had been closed for the last few days, which had afforded Holly the time to be with her husband. However, with a new medical bill to cover, and the anticipation of another in two months' time along with their other payments, she could not spend any more time away. She would be granted a half-day, like everyone else, when she returned the next day, but she would have to go back to full-time after that.
"When you put it that way," he replied, doing his best to match her joking tenor. Wistfully, he looked at her and then to the door. "Wish I could go with you."
Her expression mirrored his. "I do, too. But you're still healing. And you've gotta prove that you can go more than a day without popping your stitches."
A frown graced his mouth; that had only happened once, when he was attempting to reach out to her after he'd first woken up. It had been a pain to get the stitching redone, and he did not intend on having it happen again. Shifting his torso, he pointedly arched an eyebrow at her.
"So far, so good."
Canting her head at that, she went on to assure him, "At least you'll be transferred to the base's hospital bay by next Friday, no matter what."
"It's sad, but I'll be glad when that happens," he confided, glancing at the hospital room once more. "I'll be closer, and then it should only be another week or so until I'm out."
She grinned, reaching out where the blanket had fallen away and tweaking the band of the soft pants that had been given to him.
"Bet you're looking forward to wearing your own clothes again."
Grasping her hand, he slotted their fingers together as best he could, thumb brushing awkwardly against her skin due to the brace.
"More like I'm looking forward to going home, sleeping in my bed with my wife," he admitted. Though the prognosis for his recovery looked good, with three weeks given as the maximum recovery time, it was quite awhile to be away from home. Away from her. Tipping her chin, she brought his hand up with hers on the rail, leaning forward and pecking his fingertips.
"Me, too," Holly declared. "Soon, though."
"Soon," Steve concurred, squeezing her hand once before diving into the pile of treats, determining which to dig into first. It wasn't for very long, and in the meantime, they would endure.
xXxXxXx
The Wednesday after the U.N. attack, Sam Wilson was starting to feel more like himself. The initial treatment of his collarbone break did not require extensive surgery, and so he was discharged from the hospital within two days (after the danger of his concussion had passed). It would be a sling and wrapping for six weeks, and then some time spent in physical therapy, but all things considered, he'd gotten out of the ordeal relatively decently. In comparison to others. With his granted leave, he returned to the hospital to check on his friends, was shocked at the wear and tear on both captain and colonel. He really had come out luckier than he supposed; at least he wasn't going for hip surgery, or to replace a broken femur. There weren't ribs to repair or muscles to stitch up on his body. He was not pleased to be out of the game for what he had, but it could have been worse.
Well, physically, anyway. Mentally, he was still thrown for a loop. After all, he could hardly find a better way to describe the state of his mind after being found in the rubble by his...girlfriend? Ex? Friend with benefits? Either way, Kay had found him, had sat with him until his mother was informed of his condition. Though his brain was rattled and jarred, he did remember that she promised to speak with him, really talk to him about everything that had gone down between them. He was sure he wasn't imagining it; he didn't think he could imagine the sincerity in her eyes when she swore that she would do so. However, when he was released from the care of the doctors, she was nowhere to be found. Granted, he did understand that it was unfair to expect her to drop everything for him; after all, she still had her job to do, reports to make on the findings after extracting people from the wreckage of the U.N. halls.
He just did not think it would take her so long. Hell, he would've settled for a phone call. After visiting with Steve (who was down due to his wife returning home without him), he had resolved to take matters into his own hands, his phone coming into his free palm as he exited the front doors. Shortly, though, he realized that was unnecessary.
For there Kay was, blue hair loose around her shoulders and her dark eyes brightening upon seeing him. She had been leaning languidly against a car, a sedan she'd no doubt rented for her time in the city. Pushing herself off the vehicle, she approached him slowly, as if she feared he would be spooked and scamper away before she got too close.
"I spoke with your mom," she offered by way of an explanation. Tucking her hair behind her ear, she nodded to the hospital behind him. "She said I could find you here. Do you want a ride back home?"
Given that his only other option at that point was a cab or the bus, he would rather brave the streets of New York with her. Despite the potential awkwardness. Besides, if he wanted answers, the source was before him.
"Uh, sure," he said aloud. Following her lead, he stepped around the passenger side, sliding in carefully. Clearing his throat, he murmured, "Thank you."
"No problem," she returned, putting the car into drive and pulling away from the curb (and out of the drop-off zone before security and the nurses could berate her for it). The air in the car was tense as they migrated up from the Lower East Side, a path being slowly plotted to the borough of Harlem where his mother resided and where he would be staying for the remainder of the week. Quiet permeated the cab, save for the honking and occasional screams of the other drivers around them; not even the music was playing. Sam had alternated between staring out the window and fidgeting with the hem of his jeans with his good hand. At intervals, Kay tapped her fingers along the wheel, her lip bitten on and off as they moved from one street to the next.
"Why did you—" he started, unable to take the silence anymore.
"So I—" she spoke over him, evidently not able to stew any longer, either. Glancing at each other, they breathed out awkward chuckles.
"Ladies first," he intoned, nodding for her to begin whenever she was ready. It took maneuvering between a cab and a Prius with an Uber sticker before she found her courage to speak again.
"You're probably wondering why I'm doing this. After a month of not talking to you."
His expression was blank, but he could not restrain himself from answering sardonically.
"The thought had crossed my mind."
Guiltily, she sighed, scrubbing a palm over her brow before continuing.
"I had a lot to think about. About you, and us...I was so used to being one way, having to live my life according to one set of rules. Which worked, but I wasn't ever really happy with it," she did her best to explain, both of them knowing full well that she was skimming quite a bit. However, they weren't there to rehash her years spent in secret services, forcing herself to abide by a code that merely allowed her to survive as ranks and positions changed, as agencies morphed and she had to remain the same. Snorting, she muttered, "I barely had any friends, because of it, let alone what we have."
The last part was spoken with a sort of broken inflection, as if she were afraid to even allude to the fact that they might not actually have anything anymore. It made Sam flinch, and his heart constricted in his chest. At a red light, she took her eyes away from the road, met his eye-line squarely.
"But that's changed so much over the last year, without me realizing it until you threw down the ultimatum."
Sam, who had been picking at the line of his sling, held up a finger to pause her.
"I just said we needed a break to think. I didn't make you choose one way or another," he stated simply, shrugging his good shoulder when she glanced over at him. "Just saying."
A choked chuckle rumbled in her throat, and she swallowed against the dryness cropping up.
"Fair point. Truth was, it scared me," she confessed, noting his furrowed brow and shrugging. The red light turned green, and traffic lurched forward. Her attention grabbed, she pressed lightly on the gas as she chided herself, "Stupid as that sounds, but it's true. Going public, letting people really know, it could mean a lot of things. Some good, and some bad. I mean, you know how bad it can get."
Many examples flashed through his mind, of what he'd heard through the grapevine about Holly's panic attack when she went to Steve, of the rumors swirling yet again about the strain in Stark and Pepper Potts' relationship. He couldn't deny that there were unpleasant aspects of publicly being a couple, when one was fodder for the rumor mill.
"I didn't know if I could live like that," Kay nearly whispered, finally crossing the invisible border that separated Manhattan from Harlem as she did so. Another minute of silence passed between them, and Sam exhaled sharply.
"So?"
Her gaze turned from the street back to him, and he could see the deep hurt that was being suppressed within.
"I realized what scared me more was losing you. Losing you, and not being able to..." she trailed off, her voice catching. Coughing, she negotiated a left turn, her free hand coming up to rake through her hair. Sternly, she pushed herself to finish her speech. "It's like you said: I already was there, I just wasn't being honest about it. I think it's about time to be honest. I love you, Sam, and I want it all. It won't be easy, to let go of behavior that I've had drilled into me for almost eleven years. But...I would rather try, and not let the outside world dictate my life."
Emotions rushed through him then, so hard and fast that he could not pinpoint a single one. Tongue-tied, he gaped at her as she pulled her car along familiar streets, edging ever-closer to his mother's house. She swallowed again, audibly that time.
"I know I probably left it too late, not saying this until after you got hurt, and you've probably realized that you'd be better off without the uncertainty. If you need the time to think about it, you can have it. As much as you want." Here she paused, drawing in a deep breath as if to steady herself. "And if, if it is too late, then I'll just drop you off at home, and that'll be it."
Flashing a strained smile at him, it slipped off her lips the longer he sat there, eyes latching onto his knees and his jaw clenching. Silence hovered once again, and her sad sigh was muffled by her palm as she pretended to scratch at the corner of her mouth. Soon enough, the sedan pulled onto the correct street, brownstones lining both sides. A few of the younger kids were playing on their stoops, school having ended roughly an hour beforehand. An open parking spot just large enough for her to pull into was right in front of his mother's home, and she swiftly slid the vehicle into it. Mutely, she exited the car when he did, walking him up the front steps. She slid her hands into the pockets of her jacket, unable to say anything as he stalled there, palm on the doorknob and his gaze boring into her. Once, twice, she coughed, and she pulled herself to her full height, looking at him directly. The shimmer of tears was laced beneath her irises, but she managed to keep a hold on her emotions.
"Right, so, I guess this is good-bye," Kay said, giving him one last chance to say something. When all she got was a nod, she sniffed, her shoulders moving jerkily as she stepped back. Dejection and fury with herself ripped through her as she pivoted, the steps of the stoop hard under her boots as she started to walk away. She had waited too long, waited until things had become too dire and loaded to confront the truth. She had no one to blame but herself, her mind muttered mutinously, and she could only feel her shoulders slump all the more.
"You were kind of right," Sam suddenly said, his voice stopping her in her tracks. Half-turning back to him, her gaze tracked him as he followed her down to the last couple of steps. His hand slid up her arm, onto her shoulder, the heat of his palm muted by the jacket she wore. Soon enough, he was tipping her chin up slightly, lids drooping as warmth crawled through her. "You took your time, but you weren't too late."
Hope flooded her veins then, cautious hope filling her as she leaned into him.
"Sam," she breathed, eyes closing as he leaned down and brushed his lips over hers. The lost days, weeks, seemed to vanish as he kissed her, as she met his passionate entreaty measure for measure. The misappropriated tears fell, traces of salt on their lips as they opened up to one another. Despite the shots of pain from his injury, Sam couldn't hold her close enough, couldn't get enough of her taste, her mouth. He'd missed her so much, and given the way she was meeting him fully, she had, too. Quite a lot, apparently, as her tongue swiped at his lower lip, begging for entrance. Forced apart to catch their breath a few moments later, he braced his forehead to hers, palms the back of her neck as her hands clenched at his waist. It would not be perfect, but they could start over, start again. And it could happen there, no matter who knew it.
"As romantic as the stoop is, you two should probably come inside," a mellow, mature-sounding voice broke through their haze, and both of them looked up. An older woman had come out of the house, silver-threaded black curls ringing her face and a deep purple day dress falling around her. Mrs. Wilson stood just inside the opened doorway, arms folded over her chest and leaning against the jamb. Though her expression was meant to be stern, it was hard to miss the sparkle in her dark eyes and the way she struggled to keep the smirk off her lips. Down the street, the kids who had been playing were giggling like crazy, some of them pretending to wretch at the gross adults kissing, and they both started to laugh, as well. His mother's eyes warmed, and a grin finally danced over her face. Tipping her head to the next brownstone over, she remarked, "Cheryl has enough to complain about; I don't need her comin' over with her hose, either."
Knowing exactly how crazy the neighbors could get on that street, Sam did not doubt her for a minute. Chuckling sheepishly, he nodded up at her.
"Okay, Mom," he agreed, fingers threading absentmindedly through Kay's bright hair.
"Sorry, Missus Wilson," the agent apologized, loosening the fists that were balling up his shirt at the waist.
"Darlene, honey," the older woman corrected her gently, a laugh being the undercurrent to her words. She inhaled deeply, and Sam wondered if she was going to make a joking comment about her son acting like a teenager caught on the front porch once more, but it didn't happen. Hooking a thumb towards the interior of the house, she murmured instead, "Got some food waiting inside, so whenever you two are ready."
Another round of nods were given, and Darlene's smile became a little more genuine as she retreated back inside. Smirking, Sam directed his gaze back onto the woman before him, his hand slipping from her hair into the pocket of her jacket. Fetching up her keys, she quirked an eyebrow at him when he clicked the button for the automatic locks.
"Well, looks like you're definitely not going anywhere. For the evening, minimum," he articulated calmly, jingling the car keys for a moment before slipping them back into place. His gaze met hers, grew a shade darker as he did so. "Maybe all night tonight, too."
His promising tone made a shiver race up her spine, chilling her in a way she hadn't known before him. Glancing down, Kay's smile drooped as she carefully brushed her thumb over his sling, concern lighting her features.
"You're still healing," she accentuated, trying and failing to sound firm. Hesitance, diffidence creased her face, and she looked up at him. "You sure?"
Fingers fluttered over her cheek, framing her face as he peered down at her. He knew, understood what she meant. Mouth descending on her again, that time it was a slow and sweet kiss, a promise to go on and rebuild what was broken.
"More than sure," he whispered when they broke apart. Slipping his arm around her, they walked as one back up the stairs, ready to begin anew. "Come on."
xXxXxXx
The sky was clouded over The Hague, rain threatening to fall at any moment. The stark, brick building of the United Nations Detention Center stood out, extra security ringing its walls due to the arrival of important visitors. The newly-crowned King of Wakanda had come, at the special invitation of one of the superintendents of the facility. After commencing with his father's funeral, the young king had wanted to be kept abreast of the progress of the murderer's detainment and trial.
Though not all of the foot soldiers had earned a spot in the place, he knew for a fact that Helmut Zemo and Johanna Jensen were there, awaiting the inevitable verdicts that would be handed down. Due to the immediate and sudden nature of their attack upon the members of the United Nations, and subsequent arrest, it was deemed unwise to hold off on trials for long, and were due to meet in court in no later than a week. Mounting evidence was piling, the location of a secret base outside of the capital of Sokovia yielding much by the way of data, blueprints, files—even the weaponry obtained from HYDRA's base in Novi Grad had turned up, purchased under false names and stored for later use. Therefore, there was no choice but to speed up proceedings. As such, he had received a summons as a witness, either to appear before the court or to submit testimony in the presence of lawyers and the judge. Choosing to submit a written testimony of events—the whole world had seen the fall of his father, the attempted rending of nations—he'd arrived that morning, a companion at his side.
Representative Hawley, another survivor of the attack, had gone with him to oversee the progress as well, and give her own statement. She would be testifying at the trial, and had determined to come to the Netherlands ahead of time for her own bout of recuperation. Still, she had seen to it to be at the king's side when he went into the facility, both as a sympathetic body and as the Avengers' representative. When he'd finished signing off on the document, he'd requested permission to see one of the prisoners, to meet with Zemo in person. A part of her had hoped he would be denied the opportunity, but the superintendent saw no reason to refute his request. The paperwork necessary for visitation and for clearance were rushed through, and shortly after noon, both the king and Hawley were granted access to the inner floors. Following the armed escort down the narrow halls to the designated meeting room, the older woman exhaled softly through her nose. Wary glances darted to the tall, determined young man at her side. The minutes passed as they moved, with her stewing the uneasy silence that had descended after permission was granted. Rounding another corner, she placed her palm in the crook of his elbow, forcing him to stop. Quizzical eyes looked down at her, and she sighed.
"Your Highness, I would strongly advise not going through with this," Hawley recommended, squaring her shoulders. The king of Wakanda, and Avenger in his own right, spiked a dark brow at her, a sardonic smirk twisting his lips.
"Do you not trust me to behave, Ms. Hawley?" T'Challa inquired, a touch of humor in his words despite the tenseness of his form. The representative stared back, darkness smoldering behind her eyes.
"Frankly, were I in your position, I wouldn't trust myself not to tear into that man," she confessed frankly, the tiniest tremor shaking her voice. Having witnessed the atrocities of the day herself, of the fall of the young man's father, she knew that what he felt had to be intense. She had been about ready to leap over a table and take care of matters herself when Zemo had acted. The only thing that had stopped her was the fact that her actions would, ultimately, come to nothing (that, and at sixty-three, she was not as sprightly as she'd once been). Sadly, the only thing she was capable of doing was following him out with the rest of the U.N. members, darting and weaving behind the young king as he toted his father's body and led them to safety. T'Challa was royalty raised, but that did not preclude him from possibly descending into a fit of passion, from exacting revenge. And, knowing his exact physical capabilities, he could do just that, if he chose. Still, she could not dictate his course for him. "However, if you insist upon it, then you may do as you please. Just...be cautious. He's not happy about his failure, and he does not like physical reminders of it."
Her warning was met with a slight narrowing of eyes, though T'Challa managed to maintain his neutral expression.
"Then perhaps he should have left one of his physical reminders alive," he remarked darkly, all humor bled from his features. Raising his chin, he continued, "I will not pander to his vanity. I am here for...insurance purposes."
Hawley inclined an eyebrow at that, having already deduced that the king would have his purposes for meeting with his father's murderer. What exactly those would be, dubious label given aside, remained to be seen. Still, she chose to trust in his training, his upbringing, to act as a king and not as the Black Panther. At least for five minutes.
"Very well," she breathed, letting go of his arm and walking with him the rest of the way. The designated conference room at the end of the hall had two guards posted, tactical gear in place and guns at the ready. Holding up a hand, the Wakandan guard fell back behind their king, pressing against the wall and endeavoring to become invisible for the moment.
"You may enter when ready, Your Highness," the armored guard by the left of the door told him, gesturing with his free hand. The king of Wakanda nodded, inhaling sharply and pulling himself to his full height. A last glance was spared at Hawley, the brief flicker of uncertainty in his gaze. Nodding once, the representative stepped away, a promise to be in the hall and waiting on her lips. Accepting her words, the younger man face forward again, hands smoothing down the jacket of his suit, straightening the tribal necklace that dropped over his tie.
"Thank you," he murmured to the guard, striding to the door. With a rueful grin, he flicked a glance over the armored fellows. "Right now, I am merely T'Challa. You don't need to pander to my vanity, either."
Though he didn't see Hawley's mouth curving, he could sense it as he laid his hand upon the doorknob, forcing himself to adopt a stoic expression. Entering the room, the young king quickly took stock of the surroundings. A single camera was mounted in the southeast corner, the room windowless. The walls, all a thick concrete, were painted a sickly green. The florescent lighting was harsh, bright as it illuminated the remaining contents. A table stretched in the middle, barren and white. An empty chair was situated just a few feet in from the door, plastic and metal. On the opposite side, the chair was bolted to the floor, connectors looping to the arm and leg cuffs of the inmate. Dark eyes trailed up from the table top, and he met the gaze of Helmut Zemo fully.
Since his apprehension, since the one called Barnes had told them where he had detained him (zip-tied and left on the second tier, inches from an emergency exit door when the supports had given way), he had been shunted one way or another, his confidence and control lost as his plot fell to pieces. With his mercenary partner dead, and the female doctor turning evidence against him from the moment the cuffs were clapped around her wrists, he was broken. His grand stand had come to nothing, and he had nothing to say about it. No cajoling, no hammering could make him speak about it; he merely pointed out that they had video evidence, and refused to give more without an attorney present. Rather, his minor wounds were tended, and he ate, and slept, and that was all he did. The transfer to the Netherlands had hardly elicited a response. He was no longer the misguided crusader he imagined himself to be, smartly dressed and miles ahead of his foes. Now, he was in a dark red jumpsuit, smudges on the lenses of his loaned glasses and shackles around his limbs.
However, it was easy to tell that he had not lost his avid curiosity, as his eyes had stared at the king of Wakanda. Questions loomed behind his irises, blooming and waiting to be spoken, should the younger man indulge him. Questions, and not a few comments. Spying this, T'Challa sat down in the empty chair, pulling it to the edge of the table. His expression was placid, but the fire inside him was being fanned the longer he looked at the criminal.
"Mister Zemo," he greeted him, innate politeness coming to the fore. The older man raised an eyebrow, scoffing audibly as he tilted his head.
"Technically, I am a baron."
T'Challa barely suppressed a grimace. For all intents and purposes, the man was not wrong. Through birthright, he was gifted the title approximately seven years ago, last in the line after an uncle had passed on. However, the noble rank given to him was so minor that it truly did not make a difference whether he used it or not. He took more pride in his maternal roots, as he'd shown that day in the Assembly Hall. The screams, the horror, it had not faded in the slightest from the king's mind. The darkness of his dreams had grown, colored crimson with blood and the screams of the panther in the distance. The shot, the fall of his father, it was a sight he would never forget, that he would never forgive. For himself and for the man seated across the table from him.
Outwardly, he hinted to none of the weaknesses of his soul. He could not afford to give the man any form of leverage upon his person. Lifting a shoulder, he deigned to answer the fellow.
"And technically, I am a king. But your title has been rescinded, and mine is newly furnished upon me," he pointed out, the bare tremor of his last words going unnoticed (save by himself). Sitting up straighter, he went on, "I am not here to address you in any way other than as a stranger. A stranger who is responsible for the injuries of multiple persons and the murders of several others."
At once, Zemo frowned, and he pointed his finger at him.
"I only killed one man personally. As well you know," he added, a touch of malice coloring his words. He was determined to make the king flinch, to see that abject horror and dejection rise to the surface once more. When all that was returned was a stony glare and no verbal response, Zemo lowered his hand, tutting under his breath. "But given whom you choose to associate with, Your Highness, you should be used to talking with murderers."
Out of his view, below the surface of the table, T'Challa's hands were curling tight to prevent himself from lashing out. As much as he dearly wished to strike the man, to do unto him as had been done to his father, he knew he could not act in such a way. Not as himself, not as the king of Wakanda. Swallowing hard, he leaned forward slightly, picking his words with care.
"An accident robbed you of your family, Mister Zemo, but your deliberations have robbed many others of theirs." T'Chaka's face rose in his mind's eye, the light in him there and gone. Another image, one of Captain Rogers in his hospital bed, his pregnant wife at his side, filtered in as well. He'd gone to see his fallen comrades, offered his condolences to the other nations' members who had lost people in their parties. The brokenness and sorrow could not be pushed back, and he sighed. "And nearly cost so many more."
Zemo snorted. "They deserved no less. Being deluded into believing they are safe in the Avengers' hands. Thinking that they could be safe. They never have been, no more than anyone else. They all needed to see how useless that train of thought is."
T'Challa shook his head, disgust blossoming on his features.
"Unfortunately, you're wrong. As wrong as you were the day this all started brewing in your mind."
What had happened to Zemo was truly tragic, he could concede that much. Losing loved ones was enough to drive anyone mad, to make them consider unspeakable things if meant assuaging the pain. T'Challa knew that better than some, at that point. However, Zemo's fallacy lay in thinking that he had a duty to inform people of mistakes made, when the mistakes were already known and acknowledged. More than that, the mistakes were being rectified, restitution given over to those who had lost so much by those who had inadvertently taken away from them. The Avengers worked to atone for the casualties, to aid the families who were broken and displaced, a myriad of organizations and companies joining in the efforts. Zemo had let his tragedy consume him, and breed further sorrow in its wake. In the end, he wanted people to know his suffering, and would not be denied.
Well, T'Challa knew that suffering all too well, now.
The other fellow let his gaze wander over the king, boredom beginning to line his face.
"Why are you here?"
T'Challa blinked, forcibly dragging himself away from the hurt and the pain within. He did have a purpose for seeing Zemo, and it wasn't to debate the merits (or lack thereof) of his failed mission.
"To let you know that, regardless of where they send you after this to serve your sentence, if they do spare you, I will be watching over your imprisonment from this day forward. You will have the eyes of Wakanda, of the panther, on you from this day forward. And I will personally ensure that all laws are followed to the letter while you are incarcerated."
"You have no jurisdiction here," the older man retorted, a snide edge to his words. His gaze shifted away, to the camera set in the corner near the ceiling. Stiffening his spine, he looked the king dead in the eye. "And even so, do you think they can keep me locked up forever?"
The challenge was made, even if Zemo did not actually mean to follow through with it. For that, the younger man almost smiled; he would not back down from such a thing, and the other fellow was about to understand that.
"We shall see. And if you do escape, I will make sure you are instead brought to Wakandan justice. After all, escape from one means you'll be pursued by the other," he informed him, watching the other man's face pale at the implications. As an insular country, it was rumored that Wakanda's laws and actions against transgressors were practically draconian, since the outside world was not allowed to have influence pushed upon its governing systems. While that was not inherently true, T'Challa was not about to correct that viewpoint. Particularly if it knocked the smugness out of the man who had murdered his family. Palms were laid flat on the table, and T'Challa rose, his build nearly towering over Zemo as he bent a little further. "And I will not be so lenient as I have been. I will hunt you down, and I will tear you limb from limb, if you ever do so."
The older man's throat constricted, as though he was truly aware of the consequences of his actions for the first time. Still, he kept his back ramrod straight, not yielding in the slightest.
"You should be turning on them, not me. They acted rashly," he hissed, all decorum and facades broken, his angry appeal grinding upon the younger man's ears. Zemo still refused to give up his cause, and was even willing to attempt to make the king see reason one final time. "After all, the soldier is responsible for hundreds of deaths, what was one more to him? And the Black Widow, she's a piece of work."
"They did not kill my father," he interrupted, finally goaded into laying down his guard. The remark about the two mentioned Avengers did not so much as make him flinch, as he had been apprised of the situations with all his potential teammates when he had joined. Though their records were riddled with bullets and blood, they showed remorse, repentance. They were willing to right their wrongs, do what was needed to atone, even at the cost of their own lives. He could see no sign of either in the man before him, and so he would not be swayed. Revealing the depth of his anger and hatred, it registered as the downturn of his lips, and the narrowing of his eyes. Furrowing his brow, he conceded, "They tried to save him, and yes, they failed to do so. But I do not blame them, regardless of their past sins. They did not commit murder, regicide. You did."
Yes, T'Challa knew the suffering that Zemo had endured, but he would not make the world pay for it. The older man glared at him, his posture slumping as he recognized how lost his cause truly was. He looked upon the young king as though he were the lunatic, the criminal who should be in chains.
"You're a fool," he spat, blatant disrespect for the monarch in his tone. Turning his head away, he mumbled, "And really no better than they are."
"No, I'm not," T'Challa agreed, his posture straightening once more. A few steps brought him around to Zemo's side of the table, and the older man went rigid as he bent close. Though trying to appear uninterested, dismissive even, the gleam in his eye told T'Challa how poised Zemo was to hear what he had left to say. In a hushed voice, he indulged him for the first and last time. "After all, I am one of them."
Eyes widened, and the would-be baron opened his mouth, his speech stifled as the king briskly strode away. Knocking thrice on the door, the panels were unlocked, and a final look was shot over his shoulder at the man.
"Good-bye, Mister Zemo," the young king said, his farewell falling upon deaf ears as the captured fellow grumbled under his breath. His resolve strengthened as he walked out of the meeting room, Hawley and his guard falling into step with him as he made his was to the exit of the facility. Zemo would face justice, from the world, from the Avengers, from T'Challa. And the Black Panther would, without a doubt, see it done. One way or another.
A/N: Slowly, but surely, everybody's healing.
There's quite a bit going on in this chapter, and I hope that's alright with you guys. It kinda kicked my butt, but then again, what else is new with my writing? Haha...
Once again, I am not a doctor. Therefore healing times and rates have been adjusted to the parameters of the patients in the story, and may not be 100% accurate, despite personal research. Some broken collarbones honestly require no more than a sling being worn for weeks.
Also, Jan. 19th marked 2 years since I first started this series, when Holly (Martin) Rogers was first brought into being. Celebration...holy cow, look how far we've all come! And still going strong. Gotta keep that up...
I own nothing from the MCU, nor do I own any other pop culture references made in the text (Marvel comics, M&M's, Dracula, Uber, etc.)
Thanks for reading, please review, and I'll see you all for the next one!