"You seem tense." Sam had to raise his voice a little to be heard over the strong wind and buzzing machinery. "And a little broody. It's scaring the locals."

Steve wiped grime from his face with a rag, trying to get off the combination of motor oil, mud, and sandy grit. It more smeared around than anything else. The construction site in uptown Harlem where they'd been called to contain an Enhanced was all but destroyed, and Steve hoped that the owners had decent insurance.

The kid had developed some wild power of mixing mud and sand into a manipulatable slurry. The kid. He'd been barely twenty, by Steve's estimates. He'd seemed so scared, trying to yell something over the scraping-grinding-sliding sounds of his own power; nothing they'd been able to hear.

News crews swarmed the street, each trying to get a slightly better angle for their broadcast showing the Avengers, or the transport Helo, or the destruction. Sam had positioned himself between Steve and the news crews, a slight flare of his wings blocking the tired soldier from view.

"It didn't use to be like this," Steve said.

"I know," Sam replied.

"We could be doing…" so much more. So much better. Steve wiped a smear of mud from his cheek with the back of his hand, which didn't seem to do much since that was also coated with mud. This wasn't how he imagined his life going. This wasn't the legacy he wanted to create for himself and for his friends; attacking and containing frightened children. He felt so trapped, unable to see or hear beyond his reach, unable to see, it is impossible to imagine a color you have not seen -

"Sam," Steve began, "your goggles record everything?"

Sam crossed his arms. "Cache clears every month or so, but yeah. Why?"

Steve stood, a new resolution clear before him. "Put the video through Friday's processing, would you? I want to know what that kid was so desperate to tell us."

"You got it," sam agreed, already setting up the file transfer through the computing processor on his arm.

There it was again, Steve thought. Following a feeling, some gut instinct, towards one hell of a fight. He'd followed it a few times before, into the belly of the Helicarrier in search of secrets, into dark tunnels, and to a final stand against a friend. Had he been ignoring that feeling, or had he just been too confused to hear it?

Friday spoke in his ear. "Captain, Mr. Stark has sent you a message marked 'urgent'."

Steve ducked his head, "Go ahead, Friday."

"I found the phone. You owe me one."

For overnight shifts in Mount Sinai's Intensive Care Unit, there was nothing quite like that third cup of coffee. The downside was having to make it and drink it all in one go in the break room while it was still piping hot. Roberta had gotten used to it over time, and understood that it wasn't a good idea to carry hot coffee into the patients' rooms and either spill it, or potentially unnecessarily tease a patient in delicate condition with something they couldn't have.

No family members lingered in the halls, snapped their fingers to get her attention, or brought in large bouquets of flowers that were sure to be confiscated immediately for fear of contamination. So, when Roberta came across a tall figure in a suit leaning over the counter of the nurse's station, peering at the coded whiteboard with patient info, she was ready to call security.

That is, until she realized she recognized him. "Mister Hogan!" Roberta cried happily, catching his attention. "You look so much better than the last time I saw you!" He'd been her patient the last time she'd seen him.

He started, grinning at the greeting instead of a harsh warning, happy to see a familiar face. "Thanks, Birdie. Listen - I'm looking for Mab Dumont's room, but I'm a little turned around."

Roberta cocked her head, narrowing her eyes suspiciously. "Is she a relative?"

He waffled. "She's… my niece?"

She snorted. "Nice try."

Happy sighed. "Look, Birdie…"

"Don't you 'look, Birdie' me, mister! That didn't work to get you extra pudding cups and it won't work now!" She waggled a finger at him. "You should know better than anyone that my patients get privacy, and just because you work for-"

"Come with me," he spoke through her rant, directing her with an arm towards an access door just next to the nurses' station.

"What? To the stairwell?" she protested.

Happy wouldn't take her resistance as any kind of answer, ushering her quickly. "You'll see, come on."

She was ready to crack him a good one with her stethoscope, but as the emergency door clicked shut a figure rose from the concrete steps. Roberta's mouth dropped open, then she clicked her teeth together quickly.

Captain America. In uniform, a shield slung on his arm and a look of weary concern in his eyes.

"He's here for Mab," Happy explained unnecessarily. Roberta understood.

She examined the man carefully. She'd seen hundreds if not thousands of boyfriends and lovers and ex-husbands turn up at the nurse's desk demanding to see women they had no right to visit. She'd turned them away by the thousand, a steadfast monolith of iron as they spewed all sorts of vitriol with furious spittle.

She'd seen a hero turn up once - just once - for Happy. Nothing fancy, just reminding her to keep his favorite show on and make sure all the staff wore their security badges. She'd learned something new about heroes - real heroes - that day; that for all the glamor and pop they seemed to emanate in the news, there was something unspeakably tender about how they cared for others.

Captain America took off his helmet to better look her in the eye, and opened his mouth as if to attempt to plead his case, and Roberta sighed in defeat. "I can't let you in the ICU like that - you'll give her an infection in no time. Come on," she beckoned him to follow, "we've got to get you a shower and a change of clothes."

The Avenger shared a brief glance with Happy, but wasn't about to argue. She took a look out of the stairwell to make sure no one else was doing rounds, then walked swiftly towards the nurse's locker rooms. They were abandoned in the middle of the quiet night, just as she wanted them. She seized a set of scrubs in the largest size she could find in men's, plastic-wrapped slippers, and a generic bar of unscented soap.

The Avenger followed her without a word, only speaking when prompted. "Have you had a fever recently?" Roberta asked.

"No, ma'am."

She pressed, just in case. "Any coughs? Sniffles?"

He shook his head. "I don't get sick, ma'am."

Of course not.

She ushered him into the men's showers with strict instructions to shower, scrub, and change. Again, he didn't protest and followed her instructions swiftly. The pure compliance should have shocked her; she'd never really experienced a lot of blind faith from men before. He trusted her to steer him right, out of some respect she wished she could bottle and wear every day.

Before she could rethink her decision to smuggle him through the hospital he emerged from the showers. He'd wrapped his muddy uniform in the over-bleached towels, both concealing them and keeping any contamination contained. Smart, she thought. "I'll put these in my locker. They'll be safe; my friends don't snoop."

"Thank you, ma'am," he said, surrendering the uniform without an ounce of resistance or hesitation. It was something truly humbling. He didn't complain about walking around in the cheapest slippers the hospital could buy in bulk, and kept his head ducked respectfully as they walked past other patients' rooms, not craning his head to so much as read the nameplates, let alone snoop.

"This is her," Roberta whispered, opening Mab Dumont's door for him. "I'll come and get you before the morning shift comes."

"Thank you." Steve stepped inside and the nurse shut the door behind him. The hall was silent again; no hushed footsteps and secreted soldiers. Roberta stood outside Mab Dumont's door, her mind and her heart full of questions she knew she'd likely never understand. A fondness, too, for being so lucky as to know these tender secrets of those who lived to protect and defend.

She turned on her heel, pulling her stethoscope from around her neck and grasping it tightly. It did something to help with the pinpricks of emotion behind her eyes. Simply wouldn't do; she had other patients to check on.

It took Steve no time at all to adjust to the darkness of the hospital room, but far longer to accept what he was seeing, and how contradictory it felt to the image he had held in his mind.

Curled up on one side, leads adhered all over her body and an oxygen mask over her nose and mouth, Mab occupied such a small space in the clean, white bed.

"Mab?" he whispered quietly, not wanting to wake her if she was sleeping.

Her eyes flickered, caught in just a light doze, maybe. "Steve?" Her voice was so raspy, but the note of confusion was clear. "What…? How…?"

She tried to sit up, and Steve rushed over to stop her. "Hey, don't get up for me."

"But…" she wheezed, "what are you doing here?" She seemed almost panicked.

Steve pulled a chair up to the side of the bed. "You stopped answering your phone. I got worried."

Mab pressed her palms to her face, rubbing her skin to try and wake up. Steve could see a bruise around the intravenous line in the back of her hand. "I'm sorry - I think it's in the box with my personals - they took everything when I was admitted, I don't really remember it." In the dark hospital room, covered in wires and draped in pristine white sheets, she seemed small and frail. "That cold really got the better of me," she smiled poorly, clearly trying to make him feel better. Mab reached out a hand for him and he clung to it.

God, he thought, he prayed, not yet. Holding the back of her hand to his forehead as he dipped his head in prayer, in supplication, he would have traded anything. But Mab wouldn't have it, apparently. She pulled her hand from his prayer and laid it against his cheek.

It made Steve look up as she pulled the mask away from her mouth to speak clearly, even though it clearly made breathing more difficult. "Are you sure you don't have somewhere else you should be? You are a superhero, after all."

As if he needed reminding. To Mab, he just wanted to be Steve. The only person who seemed to have no expectations of him. "I'm right where I need to be." He leaned into her touch, that desperate form of comfort he'd been seeking.

Mab frowned, seeming to remember something. "I don't want to get you sick."

"You… you can't, sweetheart." The term of endearment just slipped out, but Mab didn't seem to notice.

She slipped away from him, a wave of exhaustion forcing her to lay back against the raised back of her hospital bed once more. "I can do…" she replaced the mask over her face, taking advantage of the oxygen again, "whatever I want."

Mab was quiet, catching her breath, fighting against what seemed to be a deep struggle she'd been fighting for days. Curiosity burned at Steve, but not greater than his worry and concern.

Her hand moved for his again and he caught it immediately. "I'm glad you're here." She squeezed it. "Best birthday present ever."

A different kind of horror washed over him. "Today is your birthday!?"

"It is - or it was if it's after midnight."

"I didn't bring you a present."

"Yes, you did."

"Breaking into your hospital room doesn't count."

"Well, then can I ask you for a favor?"

"Of course?"

"The lever on the side of my bed is stuck, and it's twisting the lift all crooked on the bed. Could you… I don't know; manhandle it into not being stuck? The nurses tried everything except a plasma torch, and I just can't sleep at this angle."

Steve had to actively try to avoid ripping the lever out entirely. One good twist to the side and it cracked into motion. The head of the bed lowered significantly, and Mab sighed with pleasure, rubbing at her lower back with one hand. "So much better…thank you."

He gave her another minute to catch her breath, settling back into his chair. "How old are you now?"

She smiled weakly. "I'm a little old lady; I'm thirty now."

"Wow…" Steve feigned awe, "we should get you a wheelchair."

"Funny, that," she wheezed, "I came prepared."

"Mab," he broached gently, "how… how sick are you, really?" She was holding it back, of course. She'd given him the shortest version he was certain she'd told a thousand people before. But this felt different.

"It's… serious. But it's always been serious. I just should have been taking better care of myself." Not really an answer, but Steve knew what that meant. He'd been an expert in his time, and he'd learned from his mother. Direct answers mean that there's hope. Indirect answers are meant to be a comfort, to leave room for Angels and God and prayers.

"Steve," she asked quietly, changing the subject, "how strong are you, really?"

"I don't know." It was mostly the truth. He hadn't reached his limit yet, as far as he could tell.

"Bullshit. Every man I've ever met has measured his dick with a ruler."

Steve laughed quietly. "Last time I spot-checked, I could lift three thousand pounds."

"So… a small car?"

Holding it against gravity, against plummeting against the rising earth of Sokovia, screams in the air - "Yeah. Something like that".

"You're beautiful when you fight." She seemed to be losing her grip on the waking world. "I've seen some clips… on YouTube. You're more graceful than you have any right to be."

"Well," Steve said quietly, watching the lazy bat of her eyes as she slowly drifted off, "I did train with a Russian ballerina the last few years."

"Whozzat?" Mab slurred, her eyes staying closed this time. Her breath gently fogged the inside of the oxygen mask, and it cleared slowly with her weak inhalations.

"Natasha. If I wanted to stop kissing the floor when we trained I had to pick up a few tricks."

Mab snorted, smiling even though her eyes stayed shut. "The great… Captain America… floored by… a ballerina…" Her breaths lengthened, evened, and the last of some tension in her face eased away. Sleep, at last.

Steve kissed the knuckles of Mab's hand, the oft-scrubbed skin cracked and healed over and over into a thick and angry texture. "You're beautiful, too." Under the artificial and sterile scent of the hospital, the warm smell of Jermyn Street still clung to her skin.

Roberta was sure she was going to caffeinate herself to an early grave. But after stupidly agreeing to run a double shift to cover a coworker, she'd probably deserve it. The Avenger had been gone before the early light had started to creep over the horizon, and his uniform from her locker as well. She was surprised she hadn't seen him go but figured it was probably par for the course.

But now it was morning, and now families were coming through to see their loved ones, and they always had questions. Mab's uncle, David, was one who didn't seem to have enough questions. He was, if nothing else, at least observant.

The bearded man sat in the uncomfortable plastic chair outside Mab's room, nursing a cup of burnt cafeteria coffee. "She's taking a long time to get better this time," he remarked as Roberta leaned against the wall next to him.

"That's heart failure for you," she said, wishing she could be drinking more coffee. "It takes a little more of that ability to compensate away every time. It doesn't help that Mab said she was trying to overcompensate with her meds."

David nodded solemnly. "Her doctors want to put her on hospice care. She's only thirty years old…"

Roberta had seen the note in Mab's chart. David was hesitant and was drawing out the decision. He was looking for reassurance, for someone to explain it plainly in a way that didn't feel like giving up on his niece. "Yes, and she's already well outlived her initial prognosis."

"I don't understand why she can't get a transplant!" he said sharply, confusion and anger muddling together.

Roberta'd been on the receiving end of misplaced anger and didn't take it personally. "Without being able to pinpoint her diagnosis, the transplant committee doesn't feel there's enough of a guarantee of it providing a meaningful recovery or improving her quality of life ."

"David," the nurse slowed her tone and measured her words to try and slow the speed of David's frustration. "I need to make sure you understand what hospice care is. We're not saying Mab is going to be pulled from her medications, or if something comes up that shows promise that she won't have access. Hospice care is about making sure that I'm the time she has left she is able to do what's important to her, and that's the priority. If she doesn't want to die on a ventilator, she won't. If Mab will suffer through any amount of pain so long as she can eat chocolate ice cream and watch the Mets, then we'll do that."

"Mab has been in here three times in four months, and this time she had septic pneumonia on top of everything else. She's in her chair more than ever. She's at the max dose for most of her medications and her body is just starting to give up. David… we're there. Honestly, from reading her chart she should be well into congestive heart failure by now. The time you've gotten so far has been precious but unexpected."

Birdie paused. Taking a moment to think about it, Mab didn't really look like any heart failure patient she'd seen before. She didn't have the bulging neck veins, the distended abdomen, or the pulmonary edema expected in either left or right-side failure. No angina pectoris either. Doctors flowed in and out of her room, patting her on the leg and scrutinizing the chart, but when was the last time anyone actually looked at her? To look at her and see the real human that lay in the bed, refusing to die?

"But she's so young," David repeated.

"No one's going to force you, David," Roberta promised, "they're just letting you know that… it may be time to start thinking about the end."

"Her mother would be ashamed of me." Tears slipped down his cheeks, quickly swallowed by his beard. "She sacrificed everything for Mab."

"Here," Roberta said, pulling out her last-minute birthday present for her patient from her pocket, "why don't you take this to her? Have a good laugh." It was a book of joke-poetry; plays on words and quick limericks.

David nodded, taking the offered book without really looking at it. He retreated into Mab's room, the heavy door closing on well-maintained machinery.

Roberta stared at the closed door for the second time, on her second shift. This was the way of the ICU. Frequent fliers on her floor weren't long for the world, and Mab was there so often the staff knew just how she liked things. Knew her by name. She'd written little poems for some of them. She knew all of them by name, too.

It just sucked. It sucked that those nice people got shafted with shitty diagnoses - some since almost birth, in Mab's case. Some stupid rare heart defect that scanners and surgeons and cardiologists alike just couldn't nail down or wipe out, so they medicated it into oblivion until the body couldn't take it anymore. Someone would write a lengthy post-mortem on it after slicing the defective heart into tiny slices, and point to all the failures that could have saved her. But that always happened afterward.

For now, it would leave Roberta standing in the hall. It left the Avenger coming and going in the night. It left her uncle weeping quietly into his coffee.

She turned, stethoscope in hand, to check on the rest of her patients.

A/N: Thank you everyone for your amazing patience on this story. I lost a lot of momentum when my daughter was born and then I started up school again, and got a new job… it all kind of snowballed! I'm finally starting to feel like writing again, and this chapter had dribs and drabs written for it since the story's original inception. Obviously, it's a big weighty turning point for the emotional drive of the story, and I wanted to take the time to do it justice.

PLEASE REVIEW! Reviews remind me to come back to the site and drive me to keep writing.