A/N: Thank you to Cael05, Rosesroses25, MagicWarriorDragon, Guest of honor, KateWalkerTheSuperherolover, stony4life, Fawkes83, Katdog27, Alethea 13, mrcowsaysmoo, gandalf537 and the two guests for reviewing the chapter 5 and thank you also to O smrt1 who sent me a private message! Your feedback is much appreciated.
With his sweaty hair plastered to his neck, Steve stood under the burning Wakandan Sun and scraped paint off a shed. He had been at it since lunch and before darkness would fall, he knew, he would paint the shed with the exact same shade of brown he was now scraping off of it. The next day, the brown paint would be mostly dry, again, and Steve would scrape it off, again.
There were no punching bags durable enough for Steve in their Wakandan compound, and while T'Challa was a generous host, Steve was loath to ask the man for anything more than he and his people had already been given, as the king was doing so much for them as it was. Despite of his hesitancy to ask for more, Steve needed something to occupy his hands with, needed something with a monotony and physical grind, needed something to distract himself from the swell of emotions that made it almost impossible for him to sleep at night, so he made do with the scraping, venting his grief on the innocent shed.
Grief was a peculiar thing.
When mom had died, Bucky had been there for him, giving him every day so many reasons to keep on going that Steve had moved on almost without even noticing it, even though he, of course, had still mourned for her like any son would mourn for their beloved mother.
When Bucky had fallen off the train, there had been the ongoing war which had forced Steve's thoughts elsewhere, and - more importantly - there had been the strong sweet Peggy, the love of Steve's life, whispering promises in his heart, comforting him, telling him that Bucky was a hero, telling him that they would never let Bucky die because they would keep him alive in their stories the best they could. By that point, Steve had also had a purpose, a mission, a responsibility, whatever you wanted to call it, and the responsibility to fight for those who couldn't do it for themselves had still been there when he had woken up in a different century, separated by decades from the people who meant everything to him, and the will to do good had been enough to keep him going, if only just so.
To make things easier, Peggy had been there, too, in the new century, and even if their future together had then been but a wistful dream from a lifetime away, they had still loved each other, she had still held his heart in the palm of her small hand, wrinkled with memories, touched by the time. She had been her anchor, his love for her the helm of his ship, while the Avengers Initiative had gradually taken over his life and he had made friends, new friends, good friends, found new meaning to his life.
The shadows of Howard had gradually diminished and in their place Steve had seen Tony, Tony, not the son of Howard Stark, so different from his father, but Tony, the relentless, stubborn (in both good and bad), brilliant Tony, who would make sure that Steve was always involved and not "moping around", who would sit with Steve on the floor and listen to Steve, as Steve told him about Bucky, as Steve shared memories of Bucky and the Howling Commandos, and Tony had always listened, making an occasional comment, laughing along at the funnier anecdotes, comforting Steve silently the best he could when Steve shared with him the sadder memories.
When Steve found out the truth about Howard and Maria Stark's death, he couldn't bring himself to tell Tony about it, fearing what it would do to Tony, fearing Tony's reaction – that Tony would then no longer let him talk about Bucky, that Tony would no longer want to share the memories.
It had been selfish, Steve now knew, and unfair to Tony, but talking about Bucky with Tony had been one of his ways to cope in this new century, where everything was done fast but no-one still seemed to have the time for anything, and at the time, Steve had believed that he could always tell Tony later, if it became necessary. Later when Steve was better adjusted, later when Steve had managed to come to terms with it all himself, later, later, always later.
Guiltily, Steve recalled how Tony hadn't told him to shut up even when Steve had begun – a few times, not quite realizing what he was saying, so far down memory lane as he had been – to talk about "the amazing Howard Stark" and how he had done this and that with Steve and Bucky, just the three of us, Tony, and it was wonderful. Tony would listen and let Steve get it out and afterwards they would eat pizza and Tony would smile and make jokes, even as he wouldn't quite meet Steve's eyes. Now, thinking back to those times, Steve felt guilty and inconsiderate, having brought Howard up casually like that.
Tony had given Steve a home when it had felt like he had had no place in the world, Tony – the ever so busy Tony – had given Steve as much time as Steve had asked and needed. Tony had given Steve money, his friendship, his support, someone to confide in, the benefit of doubt in more than one occasion. Tony had spent hours after hours by improving the design of Steve's suit, by building Steve durable punching bags and other equipment he could use for his exercising, never asking for anything in return –
"'S just something you do for a friend, Cap. Besides, if you had the brain - no offence - and the money, you'd do the same for me. Actually, you'd probably manage to improve everything, what with all the rightfulness and boy scout attitude. God, why must you be so good and pure – it's making me look bad! Just go play with your new toys and stop dimming my spotlight with your halo. Chop chop, Steve, time is money."
– and as little as Steve had thought of the gesture at the time, Tony had always let Steve have the last of the donuts, the last piece of pizza, the last apple, the last muffin, the better seat in the sofa…
And what had Steve given Tony in return when it came down to it?
A broken suit and a basket full of accusations.
Yes, grief was indeed a peculiar thing: When Peggy had died, Steve had been thrown into the heart of a tornado, or at least that's what it had felt like. He had lost his anchor and his helm had gone out of control, everything had gone black and silent, everything had been an uncontrollable twirl around him, he had felt disconnected, different from everyone else, he had been unable to sit still. It had been impossible to think clearly and he could have sworn he had heard Peggy's voice on more than one occasion, her soft whisper in his ear like a physical touch (Sam had later told him that he wasn't going crazy, that it wasn't even all that unusual for grieving people to hear a loved one's voice in their head).
Peggy's passing had shattered Steve like nothing had before. It couldn't have been a worse timing for the Accords, especially with Bucky's simultaneous appearance. Steve hadn't had the time to deal with the loss of Peggy, with his grief, with being in the heart of the tornado, looking at all the twirling twirling twirling, and then Tony had put hundreds of pages full of formal text in front of him and told him to sign, and Peggy had been there, whispering in Steve's ear to not do it - that's not how we would have done it back in our day, Steve, is it - and suddenly it had been the son of Howard standing in front of Steve, not Tony, and where it would have been difficult to turn his back on Tony, it hadn't been all that hard to do so to the son of Howard Stark who was nothing like his father.
Things had only gone from bad to worse from there.
He had known even in his grief that right at that moment nothing had mattered as much as keeping Bucky alive now that he was back, now that Steve had finally found him (or had it been the other way around), but Steve had been out of control in his grief, he hadn't been able to make difficult decisions, to think things through, and not even the brief moment of shared loss with Sharon Carter, the attempt to give and take comfort in a form of a kiss, had been able to help him to get him back to his senses.
Steve sighed. What a mess it all had been, the consequences little more than regret and pain, and even the joy he felt for Bucky being now safe was dimmed by the fact that Bucky was in cryogenic storage and would be for who knew for how long.
Thirst burnt Steve's throat, as he wiped sweat from his brow with the hem of his t-shirt. The wind smelt of sand and its touch was hot, almost scalding on Steve's skin. It didn't bring the momentary cool relief Steve was used to associating with wind.
Steve took a glance at his watch. The strap's black color had faded into a dark shade of grey in the almost constant sunlight the watch nowadays had to endure, but the crystal was still relatively clear, if you wiped it a bit on your t-shirt, which was exactly what Steve now did.
It was 3.46 PM, which could only mean one thing.
Smiling to himself, Steve shaded his eyes with his hand and turned to look towards the white building, their compound. And yes, just as Steve had known he would be, Sam was now jogging towards him, carrying a canister – full of water, based on the way it kept letting out sloshing sounds with each step Sam took – in one hand and a Coca-Cola bottle filled with crystal clear water in the other, his eyes protected by a pair of sunglasses, functional more so than stylish.
By now, it had become a daily routine of sorts: After lunch, Steve would go out to scrape. At around fifteen to four, Sam would jog to him and remind him that the team would be gathering in the living room for their evening session after dinner. He would ask Steve to be there and Steve would say that he would, sure, and then Sam would hand the canister over and Steve, suddenly realizing how thirsty he was, would drink all the water.
Sam would take the empty canister, continuing his daily jog to the shadows of nearby palm trees, where Steve would see Clint making arrows for his new bow – a part of Clint's daily routine – and Sam would give the water bottle to Clint and remind him of their evening session and ask Clint to be there to participate, and while Steve didn't know what Clint answered, Clint, too, would be in the living room by the time Sam would begin the session after dinner.
"Hey, man," Sam now said, putting the canister down in its usual place on the one step of the shed. "Wow, it's so hot I could swear I'm melting."
"You do look like it too," Steve joked, gesturing with his scraper at Sam's sweat-soaked t-shirt which was clinging to him in a manner that had to be uncomfortable.
"Yeah, well, but at least no-one can now deny that I look hot," smirked Sam. "I'm telling you, Steve – if there were any ladies around, they'd be telling me I look as hot as if I were on fire."
He ran the red bottle cap under the text on his t-shirt. PRETENTIOUS MOTHER, the flaming text declared, and while Steve wasn't all that familiar with modern music, even he knew that Pretentious Mother was the number one rock band in Wakanda.
"Fiery hot, just like my new favorite band."
"I'm glad you enjoy local culture," Steve told him sincerely.
"Speaking of local, we'll be having goat for dinner again…"
"And speaking of dinner?" Steve prompted with a bit of a smile, knowing what would be coming next, because that's how this new routine worked for the two of them.
Sam's smile had a sheepish edge to it.
"Speaking of dinner, Steve, don't forget our session after the dinner."
"I won't, I'll be there."
Sam's smile faded away and his expression turned serious.
"Seriously, man," he said, "it's healthy to let things out, to talk about them. The sessions are exactly for that, for sharing, for letting things out. None of us is in this alone, you know. I hope you keep that in mind."
None of them were in it on their own, Steve did know that. Every evening after dinner they would gather around in the living room and Sam would thank them all for being there. The sessions always followed the same pattern:
Clint would avoid talking about his family, not mentioning his wife or children once, and would instead show them the arrow he had made that day, describing its strengths and weaknesses and comparing it to the arrow he had made the day before. T'Challa had provided him with the materials for the bow and arrows and Clint had been perfecting his set for the past month. Each evening Clint talked about his arrows – and nothing but the arrows – and each evening Sam listened intently to everything Clint said – as well as to what he didn't say, knowing Sam – and then Sam would thank Clint for "sharing with the group".
As opposed to Clint, Scott would talk about his family eagerly and for so long that he was often in tears by the end of their session. At some point, Scott would always show them a folded, worn-out photograph of his smiling daughter and then he would say that he missed her more than anything. He missed her so much, he would say, that it didn't even compare to his missing JFK fried chicken, and Sam would listen and Clint would eventually pat Scott's back and Steve would say,
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
And Wanda would say in her heavy accent, "I, too, regret many things," and that would be all she would say, except for the one time she asked them out of the blue – cutting Clint's description of that day's arrow off – if they were afraid of her, if they thought she was a monster, which they had all denied.
Natasha had come to Wakanda after their first week there. She had been in contact with Clint, Steve knew, and Clint had told her where to find them. Steve didn't know what she did with all her time, but sometimes he heard classical music from her room, as he walked pass by it, and the music would often be accompanied by the barely audible sound of dancing shoes moving on the floor. In the evenings when they all sat in their circle due to Sam's insistency, sharing things, she would be the one to talk the most, and while she often said things they didn't want to hear, they loved and respected her so much that they listened and let her speak without interruptions.
Unlike they had done with Tony, Steve would always think with guilt gnawing at him.
Natasha would tell them, frankly, how disappointed she was with the aftermath of the Accords. She would tell them that the Avengers' situation was unbearable and that the void between the two sides would have to be mended, "the sooner, the better." She would tell them that her views on the Accords hadn't changed – that was, she said, a considerable part of the reason why she had followed them to Wakanda, leaving Tony, Rhodes and Vision behind. Each evening she pleaded for them to take another look at the Accords, to reconsider signing – they could work with the UN to mend the Accords, she insisted – and each evening Sam would listen to her and then say, rather tensely, "Thank you for sharing your thoughts with the group, Natasha, I'm sure we'll all… consider what you said," and Natasha would say that she hoped they would.
And Steve, then? Each evening Steve told the group how much he appreciated all they had done for Bucky and that would be all he would say.
The corners of Sam's mouth gave now a bit of a twitch and he shoved the Coca-Cola bottle at Steve's face, so close that the cool surface touched the tip of Steve's nose.
"Oo-oo," Sam made his best impression of a ghost, moving the bottle in front of Steve's face as if it was haunting him. "Steve Rogers, oo-oo-oo! Don't bottle things up, or the spirit of this bottle will haunt you every time you even think of drinking!"
Steve couldn't help but chuckle, swatting at the bottle playfully.
"You made your point, Sam, okay. I promise I'll be there."
Sam pulled the bottle back and Steve could again see his face from behind it. Gone was the playfulness and in its stead, there were concern and understanding and not an ounce of judgement.
Steve wished he could have been as good a man as Sam was.
"I know you will," Sam said gently. "You'll sit on your chair with your back straight, at attention, like someone is about to interrogate you for the murder of Abraham Lincoln. I can't make you open up, Steve, and it wouldn't even be healthy to force you to tell us how you're doing – how you're really doing – but I do want you to know that when you're ready, you can tell us – me – whatever you like and it won't change my opinion of you. Whatever you want to share with me, no matter how small you think it is, is progress."
"Thank you," Steve said softly after a while. "I know my progress is… slow, but I do appreciate what you're trying to do."
"Grieving is a process, mate," Sam said, putting a hand on Steve's shoulder. "It'll take time, but gradually you'll learn to live with it."
Two minutes after Sam had jogged away, taking the water bottle to Clint, the flip phone rang, the old Nokia tune sounding loud and shrill in the peaceful afternoon. Steve had taken a habit of carrying the phone with him wherever he went, but while he had hoped and wished that it would ring, he knew Tony better than to expect a phone call any time soon. Now, surprised and taken aback that the phone was actually ringing, Steve got so startled that he dropped it and ended up on his knees in his haste to pick it up.
As soon as he had managed to press the button with the green phone symbol on it to answer the call, he brought the phone up to his ear.
"Tony?" he said breathlessly, his throat suddenly tight.
"No, this is not Tony, and don't you fucking 'Tony' him – you've lost the right, jerk face," spoke the voice of one Lieutenant Colonel James Rhodes.
That morning, the Prime Minister of Wakanda had unexpectedly announced her resignation. She had been accused of bribing local business owners and when video evidence was recovered, she could no longer deny the accusations. Wakandan media had been full of news of the dramatic resignation and her crime – quite uncommon in Wakanda, the forth least corrupt country in the world – which was likely the reason why Steve hadn't yet heard of Tony's abduction by the time Rhodes had called him.
When Steve burst into the living room with Clint and Sam hot on his heels, Scott was lounging on the sofa with a bowl of popcorn on his belly, watching a documentary on llamas. Steve snatched the remote control from where Scott was loosely holding it in his hand and switched to channel 32 – BBC World News – without stopping to ask for a permission.
"Hey!" Scott protested immediately, popcorn flying everywhere, as he pushed himself to sit up. "I was watching that! The baby llama was just about to be born."
Steve ignored the protests. Instead, his eyes were glued to the screen where the journalists were speculating whether the motives for Tony's abduction were about money, revenge or, for instance, his work as Iron Man.
"This is not an entirely uncommon occurrence in Mr. Stark's colorful life," said a woman who – according to the name bar – was an Iron Man expert from Yale University and an independent biographer of Anthony Stark. "Yet, the case is exceptional: no-one has abducted him from his own tower before and had you asked me a week ago, I would have told you that such a thing would be pretty much impossible to achieve. Mr. Stark is known for his attention to detail, especially when it comes to the security of the Tower. The people responsible for the kidnapping clearly know what they are doing and I would go as far as to claim that they have done similar things before."
An image of Tony – making a peace sign at the camera in some posh event with a smiling Pepper standing beside him – appeared on the screen while the woman was talking and Tony looked so content with his life in the image that Steve was momentarily overwhelmed by regret, guilt and sadness.
"Okay," said Scott slowly, "that shit sounds more important than my Peruvian llamas, I give you that."
"It's a trap, Steve," Clint said, pacing in front of the sofa on which Steve was sitting with Natasha and Scott. Sam, with his brow furrowed, was leaning against the armrest with his arms folded across his chest, while Wanda stood with her back to them, looking out of the window at the blooming garden outside, her hands on the windowsill.
"You know it's a trap, right?" Clint asked. "They're just trying to lure you back, so they can lock you up in the raft without all the political inconvenience it would take for them to come and get you from here. This whole thing is obviously a hoax - I mean, there's no way in hell that anyone could've abducted Tony from his own bedroom. It's got to be a trap."
"It's not a trap," argued Natasha in her cool manner, even as her eyes had a sharp look in them as they followed Clint's restless pacing. "Think about it, Clint. Tony wouldn't use Rhodes for his dirty work. Besides, this kind of a scheme just isn't Tony's style. It's not flashy enough."
"It might not be 'flashy' per se," Clint argued right back, "but it sure as hell is dramatic and drama, as we all know, is Tony's forte. I bet you ten bucks he's not in any danger and we're worrying our asses for nothing."
"Tony wouldn't use Rhodes like that," Natasha emphasized her first point. "He doesn't get other people involved, especially if he cares about them and, as we all know, Tony does care about Rhodes."
"Whether it's a trap or not is irrelevant to me," Steve told them. "If there's even the slightest of chance that Tony-" Steve bit his lip, sharply reminded of the way Rhodes had straight up told him that he didn't deserve to call Tony by the first name anymore – Steve didn't agree, as he still wanted to believe that they were friends, but the words had stung, nevertheless. "If there's any chance that he is in trouble, I must go help him. I promised him that I would come, if he called, and I have every intention of keeping my word."
Tony had now been missing for over thirteen hours. He was being tortured because he wouldn't give up Steve's location, Rhodes had said, and since the phone call, the image of Tony – lying on the Siberian ground bloody and broken, looking up at Steve with hurt and betrayal in his eyes – hadn't left Steve.
Steve had to go back, he had to, for Tony – not only because of what had occurred between the two of them, but because he cared about Tony. He loved Tony; Bucky was his brother, Tony was his best friend. Steve wanted to believe that they could still fix things between them, if only they were given a chance at it.
If only neither one of them died before that.
"It wasn't even Stark himself who called you, was it," Scott said. "Who knows, General Ross might be waiting for you at the airport."
"Tony wouldn't do that," Steve felt sure about that. "No, Rhodes was calling on his behalf, because Tony has been kidnapped and the kidnappers want me in exchange for him. I know Tony and this is not something he would do."
"When it comes to Stark, I no longer know what to believe."
Despite of his words, Clint stopped pacing, suddenly looking less sure and more lost, as he rubbed the nape of his neck. Natasha stood up and went to him. She slapped Clint so hard that the sound of it made Steve startle and had Wanda spun around.
Slowly, Clint raised a hand to his cheek, rubbing at it.
"Get it together," Natasha said, not unkindly.
When Clint spoke, his voice was quiet.
"I was a right asshole to him the last time we spoke, Nat. I vented it all on him, blamed him for everything. Never apologized either. He probably hates me. Probably would prefer it, if we all stayed in Africa and never bothered him again."
"He might," agreed Natasha and Clint cast his gaze down, "but now he needs your help, our help. Do you care about him enough to put your insecurities aside?"
"I'm not asking any one of you to come with me," Steve put in hastily, feeling like he needed to make it clear for once and for all. "I actually believe you all should stay here. You're living here comfortable enough, but more importantly, here you are safe, T'Challa will see to that. According to Rhodes, I'm the one the people who kidnapped Tony want, not you. I'm going to be booking one seat for myself on the flight to New York, but you can stay here."
"Book two seats. Obviously," said Sam. "I'll go get my wings."
"Better make it four," said Clint with a sigh, gesturing between himself and Natasha.
"I don't know Stark well," said Scott, "at all, if I'm honest, but I'm coming with you – I figure we should be doing these things together, 'as a team' as Natasha has been telling us during the group sessions."
Natasha shot Scott a surprised look and Steve saw how her cheeks flushed a bit – she was visibly pleased that at least someone had been listening to her.
"Five seats it is," said Steve, resigned.
"Six," corrected Wanda. "When do we leave?"
By the time Rhodes had ended the phone call, it had been four o'clock in the afternoon. Two hours later, a plane departed Wakanda to New York with Steve, Sam, Clint, Wanda, Scott and Natasha aboard. T'Challa had had to stay behind to take care of the prime minister's resignation, but due to Steve's request, he had nevertheless generously offered to have one of his pilots fly them over the Atlantic Ocean and had made sure to send some of his researchers along, so the flight could officially be all about "international research collaboration" rather than "aiding vigilantes" – one political disaster per week had apparently been more than enough for the young king.
The researchers – two grumpy old men – were now sitting at the back of the plane with their noses pressed in books, occasionally exchanging a comment about this and that in Xhosa. They weren't paying any mind to the superheroes who shared the plane with them, although they had initially given Steve and the others a few uninterested glances.
When they had taken off, the pilot had told Steve that the flight duration would be about 14 hours, that they would be in New York at around 4 AM, local time, and – the first three hours – Steve had kept on glancing at his watch every few minutes, counting seconds till they would reach their destination, his mind coming up with more and more awful things the kidnappers could be doing to Tony in the time it would take for Steve to fly to them.
He would have likely kept on glancing at his watch until they landed in New York, but eventually Natasha had had enough of his nervous fidgeting with the watch and so she had taken it from him. Steve didn't know how she had done it, but one moment the watch had been on his wrist, the next she had slipped it under her blouse and into her bra – knowing that Steve would never even attempt to take it back from there.
Fourteen hours could feel like an eternity. They kept the news on the whole flight, just in case something new about Tony's situation would be reported, but apart from following the broadcasts, there was little for them to do. Eventually they attempted to go to sleep with varying degrees of success.
Steve couldn't sleep. Even after both Natasha and Clint had followed the others to the land of dreams, Steve couldn't calm his mind enough to get rest, worn and tired though he felt.
He shifted his eyes to the back of the plane, where his friends were lounging in their seats. Wanda had curled up to a ball, leaning her head on the window, while Clint sat up straight in his seat with drool running down the corner of his mouth, having mastered the ability to sleep in such a position. Scott had stuffed earplugs into his ears and wore a sleeping mask on his face and he had been gone to the world for about seven hours already, mumbling every now and then something about "buying ponies" and wanting to "fly on a fly". Natasha and Sam Steve couldn't see from behind the others, but he could hear Sam's snoring and Natasha's occasional sleepy huffs.
Steve sighed and looked out of the window at the starry sky and the black ocean beneath it. He had apologized to Tony in the letter. He had sent the flip phone as an olive branch, but clearly it hadn't been enough, if Tony had told Rhodes about the phone but still hadn't called Steve. Tony was angry, that was perfectly understandable, and Tony had the right for his emotions, of course, but so did Steve, and Steve yearned to set things right between them again. He would give Tony time and he would prove to Tony that they were still friends, he would- he could-
do something
anything
to make Tony see that he was earnestly sorry, that he regretted how things had gone for the two of them. Because he did care for Tony, he did. The man was dear to him. Steve would save Tony, or offer himself to the kidnappers in his stead, whichever way would be more likely to guarantee Tony's safe return.
When they landed in New York at 4.06 AM, Tony had been missing for over 31 hours.
It turned out that Ross was not waiting for them at the airport. There were no soldiers, no press, no police. Instead, there was Vision hovering by two black cars that had the Stark logo painted on them. Vision greeted them politely, although Steve couldn't help but notice the rather obvious manner in which he kept avoiding looking in Wanda's direction. Wanda, for her part, didn't raise her eyes from her shoes.
"I am to escort you to the Tower, Steven Rogers," Vision said after the mutual greetings had been done. "I would appreciate it, if you didn't try to run away on the way there, as I will stop you by any means necessary."
"I won't give you trouble," Steve promised and Vision inclined his head in gratitude.
"That would be much appreciated."
They got into the cars – Steve, Natasha and Scott in one, while Clint, Wanda and Sam climbed into the other. Vision chose to fly above Steve's car and Steve could feel his gaze on his neck the whole drive from airport to Manhattan.
"Jet lag," said Scott when they left the airport, covering his yawn with the back of his hand. "Always gets to me."
"You slept for almost ten straight hours on the plane," said Natasha in her dry manner, "and we haven't yet been here for ten minutes. How can you possibly be tired already?"
"I just said," said Scott. "It's the jet lag."
"Would it be possible for me to get my watch back now?" asked Steve, daring to take a glance at Natasha's briests in order to see if there were any watch-shaped lumps visible there.
"Eyes forward, soldier," came Natasha's answer.
"First of all, you are not welcome here," said Rhodes by way of greeting when they all had gathered around in their old familiar kitchen in the Stark Tower – once known as the Avenger Tower, Steve thought wistfully.
They were sitting at the kitchen table on their usual seats with Scott sitting in Tony's place. The spider boy had climbed up onto the kitchen counter, but so far he hadn't said anything, although Steve could tell that the boy was studying them all closely.
The kitchen hadn't changed all that much, although many items - the individual mugs of the Avengers, the team photos on the fridge, Natasha's knife stand - had disappeared.
"Second of all," Rhodes continued, "my goal is to get Tony back. I'm willing to use Rogers in any way I need to to achieve that goal."
"Very well," said Steve, giving Rhodes a nod.
"Now hold on a second," said Sam, raising a hand to emphasize his words, "we're not just going to be handing Steve over to anyone, if that's what you two mean."
"I second that," the spider boy spoke for the first time, drawing everyone's attention to him at once.
"Don't get me wrong," the boy hastened to add, jumping off the counter with considerable agility, "I care about Mr. Stark, like, a lot - he's the most awesome person ever - but even though he's been hurt by some nasty people, he still hasn't given up Mr. Rogers-"
"Captain Rogers," Sam corrected automatically.
"Mr. Stark has told me that I should refer to Mr. Rogers as 'Mr. Rogers'."
Hearing the boy's frank words felt like an icy hand had squeezed Steve's heart - Captain America was gone, as far as Tony was concerned. Steve had given up the shield, yes, but he had hoped... He had wished...
"That's because Stark can be a bit of an ass," said Clint, "and not nearly as 'awesome' as you seem to think he is."
The boy shrugged, seemingly unfaced.
"The world you get is the world you give away," he said. "Anyway, my point is that Mr. Stark, for one reason or another, clearly doesn't want his captors to get a hold of Mr. Rogers, otherwise he would have told them of Mr. Rogers' whereabouts already. Shouldn't we, you know, take that into consideration?"
Rhodes sighed, rubbing his eyes.
"If you had to choose between Mr. Stark and Mr. Rogers, Spider-Man, which one would you choose? Do I even need to ask that question? Because that's what this whole thing comes down to."
The spider boy - Spider-Man, as he seemed to be called - stood frozen.
"I don't want Mr. Stark to die," he eventually said.
"And I don't want Captain Rogers to die," said Sam sharply. "I'm not letting anyone hand him over to the kidnappers. I will, however, do all I can to guarantee Stark's safe return."
Rhodes opened his mouth, but before he managed to say anything, Wanda had slammed the palm of her hand against the table, drawing everyone's attention to her.
"We will achieve nothing, if we contiue arguing," she said, looking at them all in turn. "I have been cruel to Mr. Stark in the past in ways that you do not even know about, but I am not a monster. I am not a monster and I am not cruel and I will prove that by aiding you in finding Mr. Stark, even though I have not forgiven him about the ills he has done to me in the past."
"Consider your words more carefully from now on, Miss Maximoff," said Vision, still avoiding looking in Wanda's direction. "I do not care for the way you are talking about my father."
"How about we take a more constructive approach to the whole thing," suggested Natasha. "If we want Stark back, we need to keep our differences to ourselves - we can always continue fighting afterwards. In the meantime, we all have our strengths, so how about everyone here does their part and we work together to get Stark back without handing Rogers over to the kidnappers in exhange. That'd be a nice little way to tell them to go fuck themselves."
"I agree," said Clint, which didn't surprise Steve. Looking at Rhodes and Vision, Clint added, "Give us something to work with. Do you have surveillance footage? Anything that could give us a clue on where they're keeping Stark."
"We received several image files yesterday," Vision said and Rhodes' head snapped towards him. "There could be clues in them."
"We're not showing the images to them," Rhodes hissed, glaring at Vision with an incredulous look on his face. "Have you lost your mind, Vision! Tony wouldn't want them to see him like that."
"We can worry about that later, but right now the most important thing is to try to find him," Vision reasoned, although he sounded reluctant. "To my understanding, Agents Romanov and Barton have experience in matters such as finding clues on and in photographs. I believe they might notice things that we and the police failed to notice."
"May I also suggest," Vision said after an awkward pause, "that Miss Maximoff would take a look at this scorpion figurine that can walk and has the ability paralyze people - perhaps she could find something out about it with her skills."
"North Carolina," said Natasha, eyeing the images.
"Definitely," agreed Clint.
"How can you tell?" asked Vision only to receive two equally blank stares by way of an answer.
Sam studied the images with a professional air around him, although there was a twitch in his jaw that told Steve that Sam found the images unpleasant to look at, to say the least.
"Jesus Christ," swore Scott, his gaze flickering over the various images of Tony on the wall-sized screen, while Wanda stood by his side, her whole body rigid. "This is seriously fucked up."
Steve could only agree with that statement. He felt like he was going to be sick. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the images, he couldn't stop looking even though they made him want to punch something, preferably the people who were responsible for Tony's condition in the images, the people who were doing all this to Tony because of him, because of Steve.
Because even after everything, Tony was still protecting Steve.
A/N: Steve, Steve, Steve... Sigh.
I would love to hear your thoughts, dear reader!
