The Monday morning debriefing was, in its own way, as entertaining as was predicted. Granted, very few of the staff onsite at the base even knew it was taking place. It was best not to let out the news that Phil Coulson was actually very much alive and well; so much hinged upon the secrecy, on maintaining the illusion. It was beyond time, though, that the Avengers had learned of his continued survival, and—more to the point—of the purpose of his revival.

There was more going on, so much more, than anybody was aware of. Beneath the layers of normal humanity were deeper, darker ones. Mixed bloods and generations of enhanced beings, of those who developed powers beyond normal capabilities. These were the people, that was the division, that Coulson had been charged with overlooking. His team of agents had been turned into a sort of special operations group, seeking out the altered individuals to either offer them shelter or work, depending upon what they were willing to do. The group would continue to do so, staying in the shadows, and go on lending aid to the Avengers as was needed. They would come if they were called upon, them as well as another specialist group that Fury had contact with, but otherwise they would remain in the background.

The protection of the base, and the outer world, would remain in the Avengers' hands.

Personally, Sam did not think much about the director's appearance, his continued relations with not only Nick Fury but Maria as well, or even anything about his specialist team. If they could work together, towards the same goal of keeping the world out of danger, he wasn't about to nay-say them. Nor could anyone else; the shock of his arrival at the wedding was still strong days after the event. He, and some of the associates that had accompanied him to the base, were gone in a short while, after conferring with Fury and the captain about staying in touch, distress calls and the like to be used as needed.

No, it was another appearance that had Sam twisted and churning on the inside.

Nearly two weeks after their wedding, Steve and Holly had departed for their honeymoon, choosing the holiday weekend as an excuse to get away, lost in the crowds of travelers and therefore not easily noticed. With the captain gone, those who remained were entrusted to keep an eye on everything, to watch out over their new home and protect it from outside menaces. It was highly unlikely that anyone would really be able to breach the outer defenses, and so the captain was able to leave with confidence, hoping the trust that was growing in him for his new team would not be misplaced.

Sitting on a bench outside the equipment storage, the Falcon tipped his head back against the wall. Maybe Steve shouldn't have trusted them so much. Or at least not him. Guilt and frustration warred within him as he rubbed at a sore spot on his arm, the rough landings he had endured already making bruises rise. He should have brought back-up; he knew better than to enter an entanglement alone. The blip on the radar had been small, though, and none of the others had thought it necessary to escalate the situation.

It had escalated, though, in a way none of them had thought possible.

"Hey there," a familiar voice crooned, and when he opened his eyes, he saw dark eyes framed by blue hair, underscored by a small smile. In her hands were pieces of tact gear, specially designed and regulated for agents. She must have dropped by to pick them up, happening upon him as she exited. Lifting a corner of his mouth, he shrugged a shoulder with it.

"Hey," he responded mildly, tipping his head back again. Much as he enjoyed Kay's company—in the number of times they passed after the wedding, that was—he wasn't sure he was in the mood for a pleasant exchange. He'd made some pretty foolish mistakes, and it had cost the team. Well, not terribly much, but things were stolen, things that were entrusted to their safekeeping, and the little he'd done to stop it was not enough. He felt awful about it, and it must have shown in his face, given how Kay sucked in a sharp breath and sighed.

"Tough day, huh?" she asked, a loud snort being the answer. Of course, she already knew the basics of what had gone down that afternoon. Though they had been at the base for only around a month, gossip still spread like wildfire amongst the agents there. It was hard to keep a lid on something like the Falcon getting trashed by a guy who could shrink to the size of a blade of grass. He was just lucky there hadn't been cameras and an audience watching every move. For her part, she thought it had been a raw deal, all around. Shifting in her stance, she glanced over her shoulder once, as though she expected someone else to have shown up in the hall as well. "You look like you need a drink...or six."

Looking at her once more, at the hand outstretched towards him, he nodded before standing. That, he could do.

"Let's start with one, and go from there."

Moving at a slow pace, he let her lead the way through the nearly abandoned halls of the base to the garage. Her car, a nondescript black vehicle, conveyed them away from the base, with her navigating the roads towards the town she had chosen as her residence. Idly, he wondered if maybe she would be taking him back to her place—he hadn't seen it as of yet—but soon enough, they were in the parking lot of a dive bar. It didn't look like much from the outside, but the place was clean and there were drinks to be had. The fact that the bar stools were frayed and the televisions were out of date didn't even register with him as they took their seats, ordering drinks. As they waited, Sam used the cover of the music pumping from the overhead sound system to his advantage, telling Kay a few more details about the fight with the intruder that afternoon. Perhaps he should have reservations about telling a would-be spy the details of a mission she had no part in, but at that point he really did not care anymore. Everyone, from the tech guys to the random trainees he had passed on his way back into the building after the fight, knew what had happened. He figured that if Kay really wanted to spill secrets about him, she would have done so by then (just their hooking up alone would be ample grist for the mill for weeks).

"Really? He called himself Ant-Man?" she asked, face creasing in disbelief when he shared the fellow's title. Sinking into his chair, he took a long pull from his beer before answering.

"Hand to God," he promised, the wry smirk he had on turning down into a grimace. There was no way he could have been mistaken about that. "You know, it's bad enough to get your ass kicked on your home turf; it's another thing altogether when it's done by someone who can shrink to the size of your nail."

She tutted under her breath, giving him a mock pout in sympathy as she tied her hair back into a ponytail.

"Next time, bring a file and bust that cuticle. Or some RAID, whichever comes first."

"I'll do that," Sam promised, rotating the bottle in his hands and shaking his head. "The fact remains that the dude walked away with some of Tony's equipment, and I'm grounded for the time being."

It would be a minimum of three days' worth of work, he had been told. Not because resources were hard to find, but because it had happened on the cusp of Fourth of July weekend. Hardly anyone would be around to even look at the shredded wires and circuits that would need tending.

"What did the Cap say about it all?" Kay wondered, taking a sip from her glass. Several beats of silence passed, and curiously she looked at him. Studiously, Sam focused on the chalkboard menu on the far wall, seemingly fascinated by the idea of buffalo wings. Her eyes narrowed. "You didn't tell him, did you?"

Darting a glance at her, his lips set in a thin line as he shrugged. "He's on his honeymoon. I'm not going to bother him with something like this right now."

Or ever, his brain spat up, his mouth occupied with another pull from the bottle. If there was one good thing to come from the whole affair, it was that Steve had been gone since early that morning, and thus far had no clue about what had gone on in his absence. He could deal with the askance thrown his way by the others on the team, those who were still at the base that afternoon. The captain's reaction would be in another ball park altogether. Best not to risk that.

She snorted, rolling her eyes playfully. "Chicken."

"I am not," he retorted, mirth injected into his tone.

"Are, too." The back and forth went on for a few moments before she outright laughed and swallowed some more of her cocktail. "You want to keep this up? Because I grew up with two brothers and a little sister; I can do this for the rest of the night."

Chuckling, Sam conceded the argument with as much grace as he possibly could. For a few minutes, they sat in companionable silence, drinking and pointing out the players coming up to bat as a game played on the television nearest to them. The other bar patrons filtered in and out around them, their chatter rising and falling at turns, enveloping them in the crowd as well.

"You going to the big shindig in the city that Mr. Stark is hosting tomorrow?" she asked suddenly, after waving down the bartender and putting in an order for the grill. Wilson furrowed his brow, remembering how Tony had extended an invitation to all those at the base for a major display in the city. It would no doubt be preceded by a party, and as a member of the main team, he had merited an invite to both. However, everyone evacuating the grounds would not be ideal; it was agreed that he and Rhodey would remain behind, both of them a little relieved at the prospect, as it turned out. He shook his head in the negative, dark eyes losing some of their luster as he considered it.

"Someone has to stay back and hold down the fort. Besides...I'm not a big fan of fireworks," he confessed quietly. Which was a shame; before he did his two tours, he had loved fireworks. He liked the bright colors, the crackles, the paths and pictures they carved into the sky. Now, though, the sounds haunted him, bringing back the memories of overseas, of his partner Riley's fall. Tapping a finger along the surface of the bar, he inquired, "What about you?"

Kay blinked, canting her head. "Depends."

Sam raised an eyebrow, curious. "On what?"

"On how you feel about sparklers, since rockets are out of the question." She held her friendly expression, but as several long seconds stretched in which Sam said nothing, she had to drop it, her gaze focusing on the grain of the bar. He had been a little taken aback by the request. Kay had always struck him as a bold person—it was literally personified in her hair, for goodness' sake—but this seemed different. Granted, they had hooked up a couple times before that day, but that was all that had happened. Well, they had spoken at the wedding...and traded texts on and off for the past couple of weeks...flirty hellos and conversations in the halls of the base whenever they bumped into one another...kind of like when he was pursuing…

Oh.

He blinked at his own bout of stupidity. He was really off his game, he realized. And he was leaving her hanging like an idiot, staring as she traced along the grain on the bar before flattening her palm against it. Enough of that.

"...Sparklers can be fun," he said eventually, taking her hand in his and squeezing it.

Careful happiness lit up her dark eyes, her face, as she looked up and tapped her glass against his bottle. "They're more fun after some beer and steaks."

He smiled then. "I'm cool with that."

Later, after the sun had fully set and the pair had duked it out over a few rounds of pool, Sam was dropped back at the base feeling lighter than he had before. With promises to call and let her know when he was on the way out the next day, he got out of Kay's car, a kiss on the cheek and a wink her farewell to him. Standing by the road, he watched as she pulled a U-turn in the grass and flew down the frontage road, hands in his pockets and a grin on his lips.

Suddenly, his phone vibrated, jerking him out of his reverie and back into the present. Retrieving it, he looked at the notification light blinking and swiped at the screen. It was a text message...a text message from Steve. Inhaling deeply, he drew his thumb across the screen and opened it up.

I know about what happened. We'll discuss it when I get back next week. Next time, don't wait to tell me about a breach until after the Vision rats you out.

Out loud, Sam blew out a groan, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. He should've known better than to expect his edict against the captain finding out what had happened to have been obeyed at all. The android in particular was still a little too green in regards to human relations and such; to him, the information needing to be told immediately to the team leader would far outweigh the need to attend to his pride. And it was pride that prevented Sam from telling the truth. Mostly.

Well, there was nothing left for him to do but to brazen it out. Or to deflect, which was what he instead attempted.

You shouldn't even be on the grid right now. Doesn't your wife need you to do something?

Of course she did. Why do you think I didn't say anything earlier? I was too busy. ;)

Guffaws flew out of Sam's mouth as he read that, tapping out a response as he turned on his heel and strode towards the security access door.

You sent an emoji. So you can teach an old dog new tricks, apparently.

Shut up, was the apt rejoinder. The response bubble blipped for a few moments onscreen before another message was sent. Debriefing in a week.

Yes, sir.

Sam sighed again, tapping in his code to be allowed access to the building and entering. A week, a week until his dressing down. Well, in the meantime, he could make the most of the days that would follow. The buffer of time and companionship would take away the sting, on both ends. And he was more than okay with that.

xXxXxXx

Leaning back in his chair, Steve breathed out slowly, the scratch of the pencil increasing as he shaded in a portion of his subject on the paper. It was well past sunrise, the light stretching and brightening the world around him. The ocean was rolling gently, and the breeze barely stirred the grasses by the deck upon which he was seated. The pad of paper was balanced against the railing as he worked, his sharp gaze flicking from it to the waters beyond, the morning by the sea captured quietly. Some people were already dotting the sand up and down the beach, but the relative peace surrounding him was uninterrupted as he put in a few more touches to his sketch.

Steve had arrived with Holly at the house in Sagaponack, Tony's beach home at their disposal for the week ("You guys can go in, clean off the dust before Pep and I use it in August. Just leave the surfaces as clean as you found them," he'd teased, pleased to have gotten enough of a rise out of Steve that a smattering of pink decorated his cheekbones). The previous day, Friday, had consisted of getting everything into the house—groceries had been purchased for the first few nights, so they could spend some meals away from the public eye—as well as arming the security system before running up to the master bedroom…and not going any farther. His own personal exploration was conducted after waking, Holly nearly buried in the sheets beside him and the slow glow of the sun barely peeking over the horizon. The place was large, the vastness of the space consistent with Stark residences (something he would never get used to, he surmised to himself). However, rather than cool, angular lines and metals that comprised the set-up of modern abodes, the house had more woods and carpets, the numerous furniture pieces softer and lending it a cozier feel. One had to wonder if Tony left the choices up to whoever had been his interior designer at the time, only stepping in to update the electronic and technological aspects whenever he had the time. Either that, or it was yet another project bearing more of Pepper's imprint that one would originally think. It was very much the "vacation house" and therefore permitted to be out of the norm in terms of his personal tastes, no matter what one speculated.

It was big, and private, and all theirs for a week and some change. Steve was uncertain what they would do with all that time away from work and the base, but he looked forward to figuring it out with his wife. He'd officially established radio silence after messaging Sam the night before, wanting to keep his promise of separating himself from the work, give himself the time to spend with his family. It would be a little difficult, particularly when all his coworkers had access to the AI connected to all of Stark's bases and residences, but he would find a way to make it happen. He wanted to do it, and so he took advantage of the quiet, of the peacefulness, and delved back into the work that was for him only, that made him happy. Well, one of the things that made him happy.

A clatter came through the sliding door behind him, his ears pricking up as he heard the muttered curse. Snickering to himself, he turned to look over his shoulder, watching as Holly moved around the kitchen and set a pan onto the stove, mix and milk beside a bowl on the counter. Swiftly, he closed his sketchbook, returning indoors in order to take over making some breakfast for both of them. Relief flitted over her features when she saw him; she really was no connoisseur at making the most rudimentary of breakfast meals. It wouldn't do either of them any good if Tony's kitchen went up in flames, just because she tried cooking pancakes.

After finishing the meal they'd scrounged together, the couple made their way back upstairs, trading off turns in the shower and dressing. The plans for the day centered around sticking to the property, as they did not feel the great urge to go out the day after arrival. A whole stretch of beach was at their disposal, something neither of them had ready access to in everyday life, as Holly pointed out. Once he'd changed out of his sleepwear into proper clothes, Steve went back down, pausing in the foyer. A credenza was set up across from the front door, flush against the wall by the stairs. Among other things they had scrambled to grab on their way out the door, they had managed to snatch up their mail. The base's mail wasn't actually delivered there; any letters, bills, et cetera were distributed to the post offices of the three nearest towns for the sake of anonymity and safety, and picked up by a designated person from the mailing department. Consequently, anything received had the tendency to be an additional day or two late. Still, at least they managed to get it, and the stack received was perched where they'd dropped it the night before.

"Hey, did you look through the mail yet?" he called up the stairs, picking it up and turning it over. Several of the items bore Holly's name, the legal change not yet affected. After a few seconds, she came around the corner at the top of the stairs, now fully dressed and shaking her head as she clambered down the steps.

"Nah. We were rushing so fast to leave yesterday, and then we got here, and well…" Holly trailed off there, a saucy grin growing on her lips as she met him at the bottom. Stretching up, she tempted him with a peck at the corner of his mouth, which he chased after when she tried to pull back. Several moments were lost in the pursuit before she pulled back and hummed happily, casting a glance at the stack of letters in his hand. "So no, I haven't."

Carefully, he thumbed through it, several mailers and a couple of legitimate-looking envelopes for her, some fan mail interspersed for him. One envelope, however, arrested his attention. Recognizing the return address in the corner, he sucked in a breath, at once curious and dreading the contents. It had come from the Country House, the handwriting familiar to his eyes. Holly, seeing the trepidation in his face, laid a palm along his shoulder, inquiring about what was wrong. Hastily he assured her it was nothing bad, but that he needed a little space to read the letter. Nodding, she let him go, warily watching him as he padded towards the back deck. Once he was out of sight, she looked down at her own letters and sighed.

Out in the open air, he drew in a deep breath, slowly descending the steps leading directly onto the sand. On the last few, at the edge of the invisible barrier of the security perimeter, he sat down. The envelope opened stiffly, though he was careful not to rip the letter within. Inhaling and exhaling a few times, Steve unfolded the letter, the neat scrawl of his old friend marching across the page as he scanned the lines.

Steve,

I'm not sure how to start this letter. To be honest, I'm not sure I even should write it. The doc has told me that writing should help in some way, provide a release for everything that I have inside. As if I didn't let out enough in the hour-long sessions or something. Trouble with that is that I don't even know the half of what's inside me. It's all a weird jumble of hate, fear, and anger…almost nothing good. And the very little good in there, well, doesn't feel halfway real at times.

But that's more stuff I should be putting in the journals she's got me writing in, too, and not this letter.

It started as an exercise, she said, in writing letters to people whom I felt were owed an explanation, or apologies. So I did write one to you, but it's not one you're ever going to read. There was too much in it, too much to go over and too much to take in. Instead, when I had finished burning those letters, I got to think about really writing. Writing to...whoever would be willing to write back. I remember writing back home while out on the front, being stuck in a tent while it was pouring rain. Sending a picture to my little sister, telling you about the neat stories the older guys had to tell. It's like looking through cloudy glass, when I think about those things. Or like if you watched yourself on the television, I guess—by the way, one of the few things I'm pissed to have missed out on for so long—you know it happened, can see the proof for yourself, but for a long time, it doesn't feel like it was you.

This is my second draft. I had to start over, because…well, like I said before, I'm not sure. A part of me knows who you are, knows that you were an important part of my life. Like a brother. It's in there, I understand that. But, well, who you are supposed to be and what you are now…connections can't be made, and I can't get past it. All part and parcel of brainwashing and being fed lies for nearly seventy years, I suppose. Again, more to work on with my therapist, who won't know I'm doing this until after I get the correct address and mail this to you. She doesn't need to know everything I do all the time.

Anyway, I guess the reason I'm writing is to starting figuring it out. Just like with everything else in this scrambled mess called my brain. I want to figure out what exactly this is supposed to be. The best way to do so is probably just to start over. Maybe I can't get back to where I was before, or even who, but I can try to get something good started. I hope you'll help me with that.

Let me know.

—James

PS: Congratulations, punk. You better do right by that girl you've got. She seems okay, for the most part. Also, next time you talk to Natasha, tell her she was right: the air conditioning here is godawful.

Steve's lips turned up at the corners at the last part, but he soon slid back into the pensive expression he had been sporting the entire time he had been reading. Healing for Bucky would not be quick, no matter what minimum Fury had imposed, and neither would it end when he left the facility in the country. However, the letter was an indicator that he was already traveling down the road. For that, Steve was pleased...and perhaps a bit sad. To recall things, but not feel the connection to them, was unimaginable. There was a lot in Bucky's life that could be deemed as such, and as much as it pained him to admit it, Steve had no real understanding of.

That didn't mean that he would let Bucky reach and find nothing but air. Not that time. If he couldn't understand, somebody would. And perhaps that somebody could be persuaded to hear out his erstwhile best friend. If she had a moment to spare. And what he could do for Bucky, starting with answering the letter when he had a spare moment, he would do. He owed him no less, in his estimation.

Folding up the letter, he had just stowed it and the envelope in his pocket, blue gaze focusing on the ocean's rolling waves, when he heard the shouts. Jumping up and pivoting on his heel, he looked in time to see Holly streaking out from the house, door slamming shut behind her as she stamped her way down the deck to the stairs.

"Steve, Steve!" she cried, dark hair whipping around her face as she tramped down to him. On alert, he scanned her person for any signs of injury or distress. Instead, he found excitement and hopefulness, her own letter still in hand.

"Where's the fire, doll?" he wondered, grabbing her arm and steadying her when she threatened to tumble over her own feet getting to him. Taking his contemplative expression, her eyes reflected darkly at him, her brow furrowing as she looked him over.

"Are you okay?" she asked him, resting a palm on his chest. Slowly, he tipped his head to one side, inhaling deeply as he jumbled mess of his mind began to wind down.

"Not bad, all things considered," he told her. Off her skeptical glance, he chuckled weakly, laying his hand over hers. "Really. What's going on?"

Blinking, Holly swallowed, holding up the letter and offering to let him look it over.

"I…I got an acceptance letter. Or, at least, they want to talk about it with me. See about maybe publishing my book soon," she said, her tone airy, as though she could hardly believe that it was happening. Taking the paper from her, he scanned it quickly, the thanks and inquiries about setting up a meeting within the next few weeks greeting his eyes.

"That's great!" he crooned, a genuine smile coming to the fore. She returned it, shrugging a shoulder as she took the letter back.

"Yeah! I mean, it's nothing firm, it's more about discussing options, feeling each other out, but—" She was cut off by Steve folding her into his embrace and lifting her off her feet. Automatically, her arms wrapped around his neck, a merry giggle coursing out of her as he squeezed her gently. His eyes closed as warmth flooded through him. Setting her back on her feet, he continued to hold on as her arms moved down to ring his waist, her head resting on his shoulder. Laying a cheek against her hair, he sighed contentedly.

"So happy for you," he told her, and he truly was. A dream of hers was being realized, slowly but surely. The longing, the waiting, the moments of doubt and indecisiveness she'd endured before that moment, he understood that completely. And he understood how great and scary it was to be on the precipice of the changes that would come with it. There was nothing else he could do but be pleased for her sake, and be there for her as the world shifted once again.

xXxXxXx

It hadn't taken much coaxing for Steve to join Holly on a walk along the beach late in the afternoon. They meandered up and down the stretch of sand, passing the neighbors' houses who allowed them to go undisturbed. Barefoot, her feet pressed into the wet sand as they ventured close to the waterline, the occasional lap of waves drifting in and out as they went. The Atlantic was not very warm, but she had gotten used to the chilly sweep of it as they moved along.

"You sure this is alright?" Steve asked after a few moments of silence. He canted his head when she looked up at him, a question in her eyes. "We can head into the city and see the display, if you want. Tony said it's supposed to be something else."

Despite being off the grid and away from the others, Stark had still extended the invitation to them. As he was employed to set up the Fourth of July fireworks display for New York that year, it stood to reason that he would like his friends to come down and see it, if they could. He may have even promised that he would keep the sky so lit it would be like the sun had shot back up over the horizon for a time. And they had discussed going before. Ultimately, they had chosen not to attend. Last year, Steve had been on display himself, attempting to rebound after failing to find Bucky and needing to improve public opinion on his character after the helicarrier disaster. She knew that he didn't really want to do that again, especially not so soon after their marriage; the media had driven themselves into a frenzy when they realized that they had gotten married right under their noses and were determined to catch them out at the next possible moment. For all they knew, they probably were being stalked by paparazzi at that very second, but it was more difficult for them to do so out in the Hamptons, where they had to contend with the highly wealthy and sensitive set on top of everything else. And she didn't want that, either.

Better not to give them the chance. Not that time. A small grin played across her lips as she tilted her head, pretending to think on it.

"And give up the chance to have Captain America all to myself on Independence Day? No way," she giggled, taking his arm and stepping over a piece of washed-up driftwood. Dark eyes glided from the waves to his face, thoughtfulness bleeding through her amusement. "We can livestream it later, with the sound turned down. Do you want to go?"

After a moment or two, he gave the barest shake of his head. Out the corner of her eye, she saw a corner of his mouth lift slyly.

"Something tells me it would be best not to skip out on my honeymoon. The wife might not like it," he murmured, smirking and patting the hand on his arm a little. Understanding, Holly bit back a laugh, attempting to keep her expression stoic.

"Ah, she's a hardass, is she? Probably crazy, too. You must be a saint to put up with her," she retorted sardonically, playing it up as she went.

The smirk turned rueful, and his gaze focused on a distant point in front of them. "Actually, I'm lucky with how much she puts up with me. Given how often I get involved in strange and dangerous situations."

A long moment of silence passed between them, the words being digested as they walked a little further. Gnawing on her lip, Holly dipped her chin, her free hand gliding through the air as though she were reaching for the answer, grabbing it when it came to her.

"Maybe that's part of the appeal for her," she joked mildly, a little hum in his throat his response. Pressing her fingers into his bicep, she stopped, halting him midstride. Turning to face him fully, she let seriousness invade her tone as she continued, "Maybe she thinks you're worth it, no matter if aliens or psycho robots, or anything else, crop up every now and again."

"Maybe," he said, fingers coming up remove a renegade strand of hair out of her face. Tucking it behind her ear, he slid his hand down to cradle her neck. Stepping closer, he leaned down and pressed his lips to hers, a loving caress. Pulling back after a few seconds, he whispered, "She's worth it, too. More than worth it."

Grinning broadly, Holly kissed him once more, drawing back when it was time to turn around and go home.

Dinner was had late, after they spent time in the basement rec room, arguing about what to watch: the prerecorded game between the Dodgers and the Mets, or a movie. In the end, the baseball game won out, mainly because Steve actually used it being his birthday as the excuse, and Holly, highly amused by it, gave in with good cheer. The meal was had while he actively spoke to the players on the screen, one of the few times his Brooklyn accent (which he took so much trouble to stem in everyday life) came out thick and hard, and she watched his animated gestures as though they were a show in and of themselves. Taking up the finished plates, she came back down with a surprise hidden behind her back. As he groaned in frustration at one of the plays made, his head flopping back against the couch cushion, she came up, setting the small cake out on the coffee table before him. A single candle was seated in the center, which she lit quickly before pausing the game with the remote. Sitting back up, Steve viewed the small cake in front of him, his half grin returning as he looked at it.

"I know, it's not quite as glamorous as last year, but…" Holly let the statement end there, lifting a shoulder. Coming around behind him, she leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him. Dropping a peck below his ear (and feeling the slight tremor as it shook him), she murmured, "Happy birthday, Steve."

Grinning wryly, Steve brought up a hand, tracing his fingers over the bare skin of her arm. "Last year, Natasha dumped confetti all over the place. I'm okay with this."

Another kiss was planted, that time on his temple, along with the admonishment to make a wish. Thinking for a moment, he blew out the candle soon enough, keeping his wish to himself when she asked and chuckling when she rolled her eyes at him. In good humor, the couple split the miniature cake right down the middle, forks pulled out of her back pocket and the two of them indulging in the confection before moving onto the small collection of gifts waiting for him upstairs. He'd tried to talk his fellows out of getting him anything, since the wedding happened only two weeks beforehand and he did not need them, but that had not stopped them from packing up a box for him when he and Holly had loaded her car. A couple of new books lined the bottom, one of them a biography of the Founding Fathers (the note sent ahead said it seemed to be appropriate, given that he'd known them personally; Steve pulled a face at Tony's dig before snorting to himself), with an old Dodgers pennant lying below. Intermixed with a couple gift cards and the joke sheet from the 1940's—some of which made even him cringe at the lameness of them, and thus made him laugh,anyway—was a folded, hand-drawn picture of the Barton family pressed to the side. And there also were art supplies; new tubes of paint, brushes, and a palette with his initials stamped into it. He crowed happily at those, eyebrows nearly hitting his hairline when he realized not all the paint was just for gracing a canvas (Holly turned her head away quickly, no doubt laughing silently as he passed a hand over his face and set the paint back down).

"And what's this?" he asked, noticing the battered gift bag that had been dropped on the bedroom floor by the suitcases. It had made the trip down with them, and he had assumed it was another present for him. Since it did not make an appearance with the others, though, he had wondered about its true purpose. His fingers dipped into it, brushing against the rumpled tissue paper. Eyes widened as they registered what they were looking at, and he blew out a low whistle. Holly, looking over her shoulder at him, winced at his find before a strained smile came to her lips.

"Something you're either going to find funny or stupid," she replied. Glancing up, he raised an eyebrow, shuffling in the bag and removing the garment in question. Neither descriptor fit in his mind, and so he shook his head in denial.

"I think 'provocative' would be the more appropriate term," he intoned mildly, swallowing a little as he stared at it. His imagination was already filling in the blanks for him, and he rather liked them. To her, though, he muttered, "And it's a very...interesting take on the flag."

"That was the idea, or so I was told. All part of the fun of a birthday/honeymoon/Independence Day night, at least as far Captain America will be concerned. Maybe..." Here she bit her lip, cupping a hand at the air and uncertain whether his expression could be read as good or bad. "It's just a silly bachelorette gift, so if you'd rather not—"

"Oh, no. This I gotta see," he interrupted, passing the bag off to her and smirking. Seating himself on the edge of the bed, he nodded to the bathroom and indicated for her to go ahead. The darkening of his eyes and the deepening tone of his voice were set off by the innocent roll of his shoulders when her eyebrows inclined in question. His head drooped bashfully as he jested, "There have to be some perks to being a national icon."

She snorted outright, laughing even as she obliged him and changed.

Much later, after indulging in the "perk" that Holly had packed for him, they were stretched out in the bed, wrapped up in the sheets and staring up at the ceiling. In point of fact, they were staring up at the display screen above the bed, mounted most likely so that Tony wouldn't have to actually roll over to view a window display like at his regular home. The shades had been drawn, blocking out the lights of the stars and the quiet rush of the waves. The soundproofing option had been engaged, which would help combat the stray rocket blasting through the air at 3 AM (thereby preventing Steve from waking up, mind far away in horrid memories and body shaking violently as Holly attempted to talk him down). Above them was a live telecast of the magnificent fireworks display happening at the Tower, the volume turned down so that the shooting rockets and screaming works were hardly audible. Every now and again, cuts to the reporter on the scene were interspersed with the blasts, with her attempting to wave down Tony Stark as he directed the display to go on.

Star-bursts bloomed, ringed by blue and red. Gold and violet, crimson and green lit up the sky above New York City, bright and booming above the free citizens below. One by one, symbols of the nation, symbols of the team rose up and showered down. One by one they echoed and flashed, cheering and awed appreciation following, captured forever on the digital file.

"Beautiful," Holly muttered, her eyes fluttering shut as she nestled against Steve's side. Wrapping his arm around her, he held her close.

"Yeah," he responded, blinking tiredly as the screen flashed and cut away again, lighting up with the faces of his teammates and friends—the cameraman finally got a good angle. Natasha was pointing out the last cluster to the man on her right, shaking her head and smiling. Tony stood to there, hands tucked into pockets, his shoulders hunching minutely every time another rocket exploded. Still, he looked proud of his creation, of the little bit of joy he was bringing to others. And just beyond him was Wanda, her expression filled with childlike wonderment as she held onto the Vision's arm, the android dutifully staring at the display as well. Her first Independence Day, both of theirs, really. Fascination and trepidation lit up their countenances, illuminated by the bright flashes above them.

The bright flashes, in turn, illuminated the room, the muted blasts splaying colors around the darkened room. They accentuated the bodies in the bed, the man staring thoughtfully above, his grip tightening on the woman now sleeping soundly in his embrace. Idly, he trailed a finger over the hand she had rested on his stomach, on the two bands wrapping around the fourth finger. His gaze dropped from the screen above, a small command to shut down following. In the darkness, he could just see the outline of his shield, parked on the nearest lounge since their arrival, staring back at him as the night enveloped them. The lids of his eyes grew heavier as he considered all that the day had to offer, what it had to offer others, and what the coming days would allow them as well.

"I wonder what's next," he said aloud, his voice barely above a whisper. Closing his eyes, he pulled Holly a little closer, sighing in contentment just he fell into sleep.

A/N: Well, here we are, folks. The end of The Eleventh Hour. It has been...quite a journey, for me as a writer and probably for you all as readers. It's...I just don't have the words for it right now, but all I can say is that this has been an adventure. This story has gone through alterations and rewrites galore, but ultimately I am so pleased with how it has turned out.

Thank you, all of you, for sticking with me until this point. All of you reviewers, signed in and anonymous, have been so encouraging and helpful to me, helping to steady me and keep me on track as well as sharing in a few laughs and happy exchanges. Truly, thank you all.

That said, I will say there is a reason that the last chapter has taken a little longer than usual (besides recovering from the ridiculous length of the last chapter): I was also writing the first chapter of the third installment of this little series I've got going on. I wanted to complete both before posting the new chapter, and...I did. The new story is called, By First Light, and it is in the Captain America (movies) sections of this site. It can be found in the links to my stories on my profile page, and if you're so inclined, feel free to check it out. I'm ready to start the next adventure—how about you?

I don't own anything from the MCU, nor do I own any pop culture references I may have made in the text.

Thanks for reading, please review, and I will see you in the next story.
—PhantomProducer