Steve is the first of us to move. He raises an open hand and gives Owen a small wave and his best, Captain America smile. Owen waves back and then moves to bury his face in the side of my neck, his three-year old shyness taking over. Steve nudges James who seems like he's forgotten to breathe.
"Say 'hi', Punk," I say and jostle Owen again and he turns to look at James who raises a feeble hand.
"Ouch," Owen says and points at James' metal arm, standing out in the early evening sun after he's removed the long-sleeve flannel he'd been wearing at the clinic. James' face blanches first and then blushes a little, his mouth dropping open.
"Yes," I say gently to my son. "Big ouch."
"You fix it," he says and puts his hands on my cheeks. I smile at his grasp of what Momma does, and press our foreheads together.
"I tried," I say to Owen but glance over at James whose gaze has fallen to the ground.
"Nemo?" Owen asks and points at the arm again and James looks up when I laugh.
"He wants to know if you want a band-aid for your arm," I say to James whose face cracks with the gentleness of the offer. "He loves the band-aids with Nemo on them, you know, from the fish movie." I'm rambling from the nerves and ignore the confusion on James' face. Steve looks like he can barely contain himself.
"We haven't gotten to that one yet," Steve says with a grin. I laugh a little at the image of the two curled up on couches to catch up on movies from the last seventy years.
"Sure," James says, coming towards us. "I would love a band-aid." He stops about a foot from us and reaches up with his right hand halfway before he hesitates. It's a second but then he completes the movement and ruffles Owen's hair. The way his face lights up at the contact makes my heart swell.
"Thanks, buddy," he says and I think I can hear his voice almost falter.
We all traipse into the house past Maggie who hasn't left her spot on the porch.
"Hello, Mags, it's good to see you again," Steve says to her and she gives him a hug when he comes inside. James and I both give her identical looks of surprise. She just shrugs her shoulders.
"Now who's lying," I say to Steve.
"Withholding," he teases. I'll give him that.
The adults are somewhat quiet at dinner, Owen provides most of the commentary by filling me in on his day running around Maggie's garden, chasing the chickens she keeps out back, napping, and finally helping to cook dinner. I get him the band-aid and he insists on having two of them. He insists on being the one to put it on James' hand, and after smoothing down both the sticky sides he leans in quickly and taps a kiss on top of it.
"Better," he pronounces up at his father and the two of them smile at each other, nearly identical lopsided grins that scrunch up the corner of their eyes. Owen then hands the second band-aid to James and holds out his tiny hand, wanting a band-aid of his own. James puts it on, then gives in when Owen raises his hand for a kiss.
"Better," James says, his gaze drifting to me again.
Steve and Maggie talk quietly, apparently Steve paid her a visit after leaving me and asked her to keep an eye on us. She would send him updates every once in awhile, unbeknownst to me. I don't feel betrayed or angry about it, maybe a little let down, but she has so much genuine affection for me and my son that I overlook the 'withholding'.
We drive back to my house, Owen still mumbling to himself about his adventures and the three of us adults in silence. He wants to watch "the fish one" and we settle into the living room for the viewing, Owen curling up between James and I on the couch, wrapped in a blanket and clutching his alligator. He will be asleep before the show is over.
When the credits roll, I look over at James who is watching Owen sleep, and clear my throat to get his attention.
"So, where should I start?" I ask.
"Why didn't you tell me?" James says, his voice sounds so small, a tone that I've never heard come from him and one that makes me feel guilty for the first time about my decision.
"I couldn't," I say. "I was fairly certain that I was pregnant, and then you left on the mission and I had Elsa run the test while you were gone. The night they attacked the Tower, the night she was killed, it became clear to me that I couldn't bring a child into that world. As much as it tore me apart to push you away it was the right decision. It gave us a chance."
His features droop and he runs his hand over his face and I know the words hurt, but I can't deny him the truth. I've come to terms with what I had to do and I knew in my heart that someday I would have to answer for it.
"It wasn't an easy pregnancy," I say, trailing my fingers through Owen's hair in one direction and then smoothing it down in the other, watching myself do it to keep from looking at James. "He seemed to be upsetting every part of me and there were many days that I could barely leave the house from the aches and pains of carrying him. Owen grew so fast that they thought he had been conceived farther back than I knew. I let them think what they wanted, arguing would bring to much attention to me so I just kept quiet.
"Officially, he was full term, but really he was two months premature. Babies born that soon are usually very small, weak, and have a hard time with every developmental stage of life. It was terrifying, having a part of me thinking that it was too soon and that my child would die, but the other part of me, the part that had felt how strong he was, knew that he would be all right. In the end I had a c-section, and the first time that I heard him cry I knew that he was okay. He should have been silent, shouldn't have made a sound, but he let loose with the strongest pair of lungs I've ever heard. He was a fighter from the beginning."
"Sounds familiar," Steve says and casts a grin at James who only has eyes for Owen at the moment.
"They kept us in the hospital for a couple days and even though Maggie was there to help, I barely slept the entire time. I laid awake just watching him breathe, move, any sound he made I was right there to see what he needed and whether he was okay. But he was perfect. Every organ, every system was fully developed and in perfect shape. I couldn't have asked for a healthier baby even though he came early."
"The serum," James whispers. I nod.
"Whatever it was, it changed your DNA and now it's in him," I tell him. "He isn't fully aware of it yet, but I can tell he senses he has to temper himself when he's playing with other kids. He's faster and has an innate power that the other kids don't have. But it'll be all right. He's happy, well adjusted, he's got friends at his daycare and he's so smart." I could keep going with the stories, but my day is starting to catch up with me and it's time to put Owen to bed.
"He should be upstairs," I say and move him slightly so I can stand and then gather him in my arms, blanket and child all in one go.
"Do you want to come along?" I say to James. He looks at Steve who gestures for him to run along and tells us that he is just fine on the couch and starts settling himself down for the night with an afghan I keep draped over the back of the couch. I walk slowly up the stairs, aware of James trodding behind me, wondering if he's watching me lead or if he's keeping his eyes resolutely down.
It's not until I see the armies of stuffed animals again that I realize we're missing the alligator.
"Hang on," I whisper at James, who stops in the middle of the room. I move over to him and quickly pass Owen off before he can protest. "Hold him for a minute, I have to go get his alligator."
"What do I do?" he whispers frantically at me. I stifle a giggle before receiving a disapproving look in return.
"Let him sleep. Just don't put him down," I say over my shoulder before heading back downstairs to find the missing stuffed animal. I locate it, lodged between the cushions on the sofa where he had fallen asleep. I breathe a sigh of relief. I've been privy to the breakdowns that occur when the alligator can't be found and hope to keep James from experiencing that for as long as possible.
When I get back upstairs, I creep slowly to the door and peer around it to catch a view of the two of them uninterrupted. James is still standing in the middle of the room, his back to the door, with Owen's head nestled on his shoulder. He's rocking slowly back and forth, keeping up a soothing rhythm and I let myself enjoy the moment. I have dreamt of this, how it would look to have the son and father in the same place and engaged in the small moments of this life. To have it really in front of me feels strange but right all at the same time.
"Found him," I say from the door and hold up the toy. When James turns and I get the full view of him cradling his sleeping son, I can physically feel the pull that the two of them have on me. His smile is one of relief, that is slowly being replaced by peace the longer he stands with the child in his arms. I don't want this to end, it feels like coming home again, the only home that I could ever need.
James catches me again in his gaze and it's like falling into the depths of what we had those years ago. It stirs inside me and I don't know if I can fight against the urge to keep us all together. It took me so long to stop glancing over my shoulder whenever I walked down the street, or even to allow Owen away from the house, and I don't think I can risk plunging us back into that. But this peaceful moment makes it seem worth it and the foundation on which I had built this home starts to feel shaken.
I go over to the toddler bed, trying to run away from the new thoughts in my head, and pull back the blankets, letting James lay Owen down so I can tuck the alligator into his arms and secure the blankets around him. "He's always complaining about being cold," I say absentmindedly, and James nods, a little tidbit for him to tuck away into his knowledge of this boy.
We move together out of the room, shutting off the light while he glances back over his shoulder at Owen before closing the door and leaning against it.
"Can we talk?" he asks, pushing his hands deep in his pockets.
"Sure," I say and head towards my room, not wanting to be overheard by Steve downstairs. I don't quite trust myself to be near James, thinking that my will is not strong enough to keep the distance between us that will be required to send him away again. I don't know if I'm strong enough to do this again.
He sits on the edge of the bed, and I see he's got the tests results in his hands, toying with them. Their edges are worn from being pressed between the pages of the book for almost four years, and I'm sure they haven't strayed far from his hands in the two weeks since he found them. He unfolds them and holds them out to me, letting it hang between us. I take them gingerly and see the my words again, the simple phrases causing a wave of familiar emotion that I thought I had put to rest a long time ago.
I love you. I'm so sorry. Written in my hasty, secret scrawl while Steve had waited outside for m.
"I wish you had told me," he says. He sounds exhausted. I wish I could tell what he was feeling, whether it was anger or want, but all I get is a numb indifference.
"Me too," I admit. "It felt like the right thing to do, even though it meant hurting you. Watching you walk out of the room that last day was like being shattered, I only barely stayed together because I had to, for the sake of our child."
"I hated you," he says evenly. There is no malice behind it, it's just a fact that he needs to say to me, to get the truth of it off his chest. "It took me a long time not to be angry every time I thought about you, it was probably six months before I could go back into the apartment. You were everywhere though, in every memory that I had of the Tower. I stayed in my little room at first, piecing together the map again. Steve was there, came and sat with me while I did it. We didn't talk at first, he just let me fume and rage and get out whatever it was I needed to say. He's a good listener."
"And how do you feel now?" I ask, a tentative hope burgeoning in my chest. He shrugs and the little bubble pops.
"I don't know," he says. "How do I trust someone who didn't even tell me they were pregnant with my child?"
"I told you why," I answer, growing defensive towards him. "It was what was best for him. I wanted to protect him from everything that was hunting you, that made your life dangerous. If it meant hurting us both so that he could have a chance at having a normal life then I was prepared to do that. I've died everyday since leaving you behind. It killed me to do it. But I did it for him."
"You didn't even give me a chance!" he almost yells this at me and I can see the hurt is still fresh in his eyes. "Maybe I would have been happy about it. Maybe I would have come with you and we could have done this together. Maybe you wouldn't have had to go it alone and I could have been his father from the beginning. Have you ever thought about that?"
"Every fucking day." I say in almost a whisper. Those three words drop and we stare each other down. I can tell he wants to do something, but whether it's throw me on the bed or wring my neck, I can't tell. I cross my arms and focus my energy on not breaking eye contact.
But he breaks first and moves to me in long strides, covering the room in half a second and pushing me against the dresser, his hands gripping my face and he's kissing me, a hunger driving him and melting through my skin to infuse me with a desire that sat dormant inside me since leaving him. I press against him and wrap my arms around his neck, needing to feel every inch of him measured along every inch of me, needing to push myself through him if necessary.
When his hands trail beneath the hem of my shirt I hold my breath the moment his fingertips graze over the scar on my stomach. His eyes fly open and his brows knit together in concern but I remind him how Owen came into the world.
"C-section," I say with a shrug "It was major surgery."
He drops to his knees in front of me and he pushes my shirt up along my belly, revealing the thick line. My palms start to sweat at being exposed to him but I don't make a move to stop him. His thumb traces along the scar that cuts across my lower belly, making a straight line between my hip bones. He stares at it, following the path of his finger before looking up into my eyes. I push my fingers into his hair and he moves in to press his lips to the scar. Looking back at it, he slowly plants kisses along it's length, tracing the evidence his son left on my body. I let my eyelids drop and breathe as evenly as I can, trying to keep my head.
"Did you mean what you wrote?" he whispers against my skin, sending flutters up into my middle.
"Yes," I breathe out.
"Has there been anyone else?" Another kiss, another touch, his hands going up my sides and
gripping me.
"No," I say, my words strong and insistent. He doesn't need to ask if that's true, he knows that I wouldn't lie to him about that. There has never even been the thought of anyone else, never the temptation to bring anyone else into my life. I have been his, and he mine, even in the time since we've been apart.
His kisses travel up my body again, dragging the warm feeling as his lips travel over me. I shift myself to sit on the dresser and when he's standing up again he pulls me snug against him, my legs wrapping around his body. His palms settle on the sides of my breasts and his thumbs graze over them, his breath catching as he starts to explore me again. There are new things to learn, a new softness to my curves brought on from carrying a child and I am eager to have him get to know the new me.
I reach behind his neck and pull his lips close again, we kiss and it's less of a hello and more of an agreement that we both were wrong and that we need this. He lifts me off the dresser and I keep my limbs about him while he lays me down on the bed. I can feel him through the thin layers of clothing and I move my hand there, releasing his belt and slipping my hand between his skin and cloth to mold to him. He lets out a groan against my mouth, his hands pulling my shorts and underwear off while I push his pants down with my feet.
He moves to be inside me and I have to adjust my hips at the suddenness of it, locking my ankles together behind his back I need him to be still for a minute so I can get used to him again. He waits, but not for long before the primal need to move takes over and his mouth is on mine and we're trying to stay quiet but before long I'm gasping for breath and then he covers my mouth with his hand to keep me from crying out while he buries his face against the base of my neck, the feeling of his teeth on my skin hurts but only adds to the electricity flowing through me.
Afterwards, we lay heavy together, our fingers intertwining, tears running down my face and gentle kisses on my collarbone from his lips.
"I love you," he whispers.
"I love you, too," I answer.