Flying lessons

Or: How to throw Captain America through a window, in 10 easy lessons

Lesson 9, continued: The captain's many shields

In a daze I stumble to my room and sit on my bed with my hands tightly clasped over my ears. His vision—what did it mean? I'm not telepathic, not really. Sometimes I can plant suggestions, but what the hex usually does is find what people fear and show it to them. Sometimes it's a traumatic memory, sometimes fears for the future, but it comes from them, not from me. I am just the conduit.

The captain's vision seems to be a tangled mess of both memory and future fears. The images of our team members are clearly something he is afraid of: us dying or dead and himself unable to stop it. But the others, were they memories? The images swirl around in my mind, tumbling over and over. Tear tracks on a narrow face. Raised fists. Yellow-green bruises. Light glinting off cherry red metal. A thin, trembling hand reaching out—reaching for what? I don't know, but whatever it was, it put the captain over the edge.

The little captain doll is still facing the wall from when I put him in time out yesterday. I pick him up and turn him around in my hands. The dumb face stares back at me unblinking.

"What happened to you?" I ask him softly, but the doll just continues to stare at me blankly. I'll get no answers here. The only way to get answers is to go to the source, but where is he? Where would he go to hide if he were hurt or afraid?

"FRIDAY," I say in an uneven voice. "Where is Captain Rogers?"

"I'm sorry, Wanda, I'm not allowed to divulge the captain's whereabouts without his permission," the AI responds in her usual reasonable tone.

She's not? That surprises me. "Why not?"

"Captain Rogers has given me standing instructions not to divulge his location without his permission. If you would like, I can ask him?"

"No, thanks," I reply quickly. I'd rather he didn't know I was looking for him. I sink back into my bed and think about where he might go. Possibly his bedroom? Too easy. He would go somewhere hidden, somewhere safe, protected from the modern world. . .

And suddenly I realize where he must be. Of course—I should have known that was where the blanket came from. The captain hates to be cold.

I decide I can't face him empty-handed, so I go to the kitchen and fix five pieces of toast covered in fake cheese, then I stuff the pockets of my jacket with granola bars, apples, bananas, and cheese sticks until they can't hold any more.

Balancing the overloaded plate in one hand and a huge glass of milk in the other, I push open the door at the top of the stairs with my elbow and make my way carefully out onto the roof. The clear sky is tinged with shades of gold and orange from the imminent sunrise, which surprises me. Inside with no windows, I hadn't realized what a gorgeous day it was going to be.

I come around the corner to the cozy nook to find the captain sitting with his arms wrapped around his left knee, right leg stretched out awkwardly in front of him, the blanket pulled tightly around his shoulders. The first rays of the sunrise illuminate his face in a golden light.

I freeze in place, because he is crying. Captain America, Steve Rogers, my friend, is crying because of what I did to him.

His eyes flick to me but he says nothing. Taking a deep breath, I kneel down and set the plate and glass on the roof in front of him, then start unloading my pockets. Granola bars, cheese sticks, and fruit are added to the plate until it is covered in a virtual mountain of food. My peace offering.

He continues to cry soundlessly. His eyes follow my movements while the tears flow over the gash in his cheek, which has already started to heal over, and make a streaky mess of the remains of the partially dried blood smeared across the left side of his face. When my pockets are empty, he still sits unmoving except for a minute trembling of the blanket. I don't know what to do next. My plan did not extend beyond "bring him food to atone for my sins" and certainly did not include him in tears.

"I'm sorry," I offer lamely, after an awkward pause.

He just watches me warily. I see his adam's apple bob up and down in a hard swallow, but still he says nothing. I stand there stupidly for a few seconds, considering whether to stay or run. If I run, it's over. I might as well pack my bag and keep running, right out of the compound to the nearest bus station. The thought brings a hard knot of despair to my stomach and a lump to my throat. I can't run away, because I'll be taking my problems with me. Wherever I go, the Chaos goes too. There is no escaping it.

So if I'm not going to run, I need to sit. Talk to him. Figure out what's going on and how to make it better. Pushing down my anxiety, I slip into the nook and sit down next to him with my arms around my knees.

"Was that your father?" I ask tentatively.

"No, my father was a war hero," he says fiercely, as if daring me to dispute it. "George was my stepfather," he adds, and his vehement voice turns it into a swear word.

"Oh. I'm - I'm sorry he hurt you," I venture.

He shakes his head: a quick, tense movement. "I didn't care about that. He hurt my mom. I had to stop him. He would have killed us if I hadn't. I did what I had to do to protect her."

With a jolt, I suddenly realize what I saw in that last memory. His determined, desperate face and trembling hand. . . "The car. . ." I whisper, with my heart hammering so loudly I'm not even sure I've spoken aloud.

"1923 Studebaker Big Six," he says immediately in a flat voice, like reciting a well-rehearsed script. "Five passenger speedster with nickel-plated radiator shell and bumpers." His eyes are fixed on the horizon where the morning light show has intensified, but I'm not sure he's even seeing it. "He loved that car. Wouldn't let anyone else touch it. Once, when I was eight, I decided to sit in it, just to see what it felt like. He caught me and beat me so bad I couldn't go to school for a week. Then he. . . beat my mom for not controlling me."

"So you. . . dropped the car on him?" I force myself to confirm.

He sniffs hard and drags the corner of the blanket across his nose. "It felt like justice, that the only thing he loved was what killed him."

"Did your mother know?"

"No, I couldn't do that to her. It would have killed her."

"Did you tell anyone else?"

"No. Bucky suspected, I think, because when the police came around asking where I had been that afternoon, Bucky lied and said I was with him." I can see the muscle at his temple jumping from grinding his teeth, and finally his eyes cut to me. "And now you know." He is watching me with an anxious, searching expression. I realize he is afraid I will tell someone, expose his secret, but who would I even tell? It was almost ninety years ago; anyone who would have cared is long dead.

"I know it's hard to believe, after what just happened, but you can trust me. I am good at keeping secrets."

The corner of his mouth curves up, just a little, but the anxiety does not fade from his eyes. "I trust you," he says simply, and I realize it's true. He trusts me, not just with his secret, but with his life. With everything. It makes me both extremely happy and terrified at the same time.

"Good," I say with a grin. "Because you don't really have any choice."

I hope desperately that this will get a smile, but he just gives a short nod and resumes staring at the sunrise, which bathes his wet face in an almost other-wordly glow. He is still crying, and I have no idea what to say or do to make it better.

"I shouldn't have done that to you. I'm sorry I hurt you," I finally offer.

There is a long pause. I'm not sure he's going to accept my apology. In fact, I might have made it worse, because his eyes squint and his breathing goes harsh and uneven.

"Captain?"

"I hate feeling like this," he says finally, in a rough, hoarse voice.

"Like—like what? Afraid?"

Another tense shake of his head. "Fear I can handle. It doesn't stop me."

Then what? Suddenly I see again that boy, running to try to save Natasha as she is gunned down in front of him. Grabbing his stepfather's arm in a vain attempt to divert attention from his mother. Screaming my name, but unable to save me. In his vision, he was so small. . ."Powerless," I guess again, and the way his shoulders hunch tells me I've nailed it.

He lets out a shaky breath and scrubs hard at his face with the heels of his hands. "I really need this to work, and I can't—I can't. . ."

Need what to work? I hazard a guess, based on what Colonel Rhodes said. "The. . . flying thing?"

"This team," he says intently. "You guys are all I've got left." His voice cracks in a heartbreaking sob, and then he ducks his head and pulls the blanket up over his face. Hiding like it's his shield.

So this is what is really going on here. All this time, when I had seen the captain as confident and in charge, he saw himself as powerless and weak, and his greatest fear was that he wouldn't be able to protect us when the need arose. I had selfishly thought of it as us needing him, relying on him, but to him it's the opposite—he needs us and relies on us. Everything he ever knew is gone and we are all he's got now. And we are doing a shitty job of working as a team. Suddenly I want to touch him, wrap my arms around him like I did with the little doll. Protect him forever.

I tentatively slide my hand onto his broad back, where the muscles are taut and quivering. He is still hiding his face in the blanket, but one hand comes out and grabs a fistful of the hem of my jacket. His fingers twist in the fabric while he wrestles his emotions back under control. It's painful to watch. My eyes are welling up too, and I impatiently brush the tears away.

"I'm sorry," I offer again, because I don't know what else to say. And I am sorry. Sorry for hurting him, yes, but also sorry for not seeing, not noticing that his enthusiasm was forced, that he was using the veneer of confidence as a shield. And, I realize, I'm sorry for seeing everyone around me as threats, not allies; taking pre-emptive notes on their fears and weaknesses instead of looking for ways to connect with them. I was so caught up in my own fears and insecurities that I hadn't even thought of myself as part of a team, part of something bigger.

Finally his sobs fade. He releases my jacket and wipes his face with the hem of the blanket. With a sniffle, he picks up a piece of toast while giving me a sideways glance. "You're sort of terrifying, you know. I'm glad you're on my side."

I'm terrifying? I don't think I'm terrifying. Sure, I can throw things around the room with my mind, destroy things with a gesture, give people visions of the things that frighten them most. . . hmm, maybe he's got a point.

If I'm part of a team, it's time I act like it. I bite my lip. "So. . . What are we going to work on next, Captain?"

He turns his face to me with raised eyebrows. "You mean it?" he asks through a mouthful of toast. The lock of hair has flopped down over his forehead again and I reach out automatically to brush it back. He doesn't pull away; in fact, he submits to my touch with a lopsided grin, bends his head down a little to make it easier for me to reach. Embarrassed, I quickly pull my hand back.

"Yes, I'll try again. Not tomorrow, because your leg has to heal better first. Next week," I promise him. I'll do anything to keep that smile on his face.

A/N: coming soon, Lesson 10: Wanda lets go