Steve hit the landing pad harder than he'd meant to, rolling from crouch to run and somehow not slipping off the wet tarmac. He ripped off his helmet without remembering to undo the latch, the reinforced material tearing like tissue paper under his unsteady grip.
"Where is she?" he asked as Tony spun in his control chair, panic already rising, ready to consume him.
For once, Tony gave him a clear and concise answer. "Porting to medical. Cho's got her headed for a Cradle." No jokes, no witty commentary - "In case you were wondering, that's how these sort of things should get handled," Tony added.
The side comments had never given Steve a sense of relief before, so it was odd when it flooded through him. "Thanks, Tony." Only bad news was delivered without jokes, without a jab at his weak spots.
Tony waved it off, turning the control chair back around to the onslaught of information projected on his dozen or so screens. "Yeah, take notes. And change your boots, would you? You're a walking crime scene."
Gratitude made both of them uncomfortable, and Steve took the dismissal for what it was. It wasn't like he was eager to stay and chat anyway; he had places to be.
Steve took barely thirty seconds to splash water on his face and change out of his filthy uniform. The diversion felt like a delay, a vast chasm of time between now and knowledge, of a certainty of safety.
He was running again. People dodged out of his way, and as he reached medical Steve realized he didn't have a good idea of exactly where on the technical floor he was going.
"Shit," he swore under his breath, but it still got someone's attention.
Sooty, bloody, battered, a woman raised her head at the sudden utterance from her uncomfortable plastic chair outside a closed door. "Captain Rogers?" she asked, clearly surprised.
He recognized the nurse, even though it took a second through the soot and evidence of chaos. She had let him into Mab's room at Sinai. Steve suddenly realized he had never learned her name, and a swift knife of shame cut through his fear and despair like cutting through water; leaving ripples, but no permanent cut.
She stood from her chair with a remarkably steady ease, clutching a handful of belongings to her chest, and he could see she hadn't escaped the fire unscathed. Her hands were red and black - soot and blood, burns and cuts.
"You need to see a doctor." The words were out of his mouth before he could even ask what she was doing there, why she was sitting in front of this door, why she was holding what looked like a Stark phone -
And it all locked into place just as fast.
She smiled, the action wrinkling the soot around her face into deep, dark lined. "I will, I just wanted to make sure she was okay first."
This was Mab's nurse. The nurse was here, outside this door, because Mab was there too. The nurse was here, at Stark tower, because she'd arrived with Mab. Because she'd gotten Mab out of the building when it burned. Carried her, if he had to guess. Saved the most precious thing in his life, at what looked like great personal risk.
"She wanted to make sure you got this," the nurse said. She was holding a folded piece of paper, holding it out to him in her mangled hands. Hands that didn't look large enough to carry a large microwave, let alone another human being.
But he'd known another nurse with nearly inhuman power of will. He'd known her to do plenty of impossible things that had nothing to do with being a speedy healer.
He took the piece of paper. "I don't know how to thank you."
It couldn't sum up how he felt. The exhaustion that relief seemed to dump on his shoulders, but the jitters that fear saddled there instead. A desire to end this conversation so fast, to burst through the door, to see with his own eyes-
The nurse wiped her palms against her scrubs, trailing soot and blood. She winced. "When they rebuild the hospital, you and your friends better make sure we have better generators. Safer ones."
"Yes ma'am," Steve promised.
Someone with a white coat came out of Mab's room, and Steve stopped him with a firm hand. "This woman needs medical attention," he said sternly.
"Oh, uh, of course," the doctor mumbled. "Follow me, let's get those hands looked at."
"Can I-?" Steve asked, half gesturing towards Mab's door, half reluctant to ask.
The doctor seemed perplexed that he was even asking. "Just don't adjust any of the settings. The Cradle is very sensitive."
Don't touch anything or you'll kill her.
Message received.
The lights were on in Mab's room, but all laid out in the Cradle Mab looked asleep, and it made Steve want to turn the lights off in consideration.
Steve didn't really understand how the Cradle worked. But, he couldn't explain how Penicillin worked either. He stood enough of a distance away that he was reasonably confident he couldn't accidentally break the shining glass-and-metal contraption, but close enough that he could see the sleeping patient.
Someone had washed her hair. The light coating of soot had been washed from her face and hands, but the leading edge of the washcloth had left harsh lines of soot at her neck and arms. Just getting enough soot off of her for the Cradle to register the patient, maybe? Steve didn't really understand how it worked.
Her eyes did not move under her eyelids to give him the comfort of motion. She did not dream, did not rest in a peaceful place. Just out of reach, he could not hold her hand. He could not raise it to his face, to see if the scent of her perfume lingered under that fire.
Steve's hand clenched, and the folded paper in his hand crinkled in protest.
She wanted to make sure you got this, the nurse had said. The nurse whose name he still did not know.
He unfolded the paper slowly, smoothing out the creases he'd just applied. Mab's loopy handwriting laid out in brief stanzas, some words scratched out or erased as she wrote and edited.
She'd written him a poem.
Steve,
I wonder how any of us fall asleep.
The vastness of the world,
Great empty spaces between our held hands
But the world seems so small when it rains.
Time slows its unforgiving pace
Maybe even reverses,
Tumbling along stars
Isn't this all so familiar?
You can touch the place of my meaning, but you can't hold it.
Only finding your way back when it rains.
-Mab
He ran his fingers along the lines, like he could feel her hand writing it. It spurred something in his memory and - how long had she been working on that poem?
"I love art," Mab sighed. "You know exactly what it's supposed to mean when you look at it, but as soon as you look away it's just… gone." She snapped her fingers, letting the sound echo in the empty hall. "You can touch the place of my meaning, but you can't hold it."
"What's that from?" Steve asked.
"Just something I'm working on," she answered vaguely.
Would she even have been at Sinai if he hadn't dragged her out in the snow? If they hadn't tumbled off the sled? If he hadn't led her down the stairs into the cold? If they hadn't been caught in the rain in California? If she hadn't slept in the car? If he hadn't coerced her to dance? If they hadn't taken a plane at all?
Steve took a stumbling step back from the Cradle. If they had never met, would she still be there? If he hadn't strongarmed himself into her life would it still be hanging by a thread?
He couldn't be in that room. He couldn't sit in there watching the Cradle wash away his sins upon her flesh. Fix and mend the wounds of his Pride, smooth away the consequences of his Greed.
But as he left the room, let the heavy door swing shut on expensive mechanisms, he couldn't bring himself to fully leave. He surrendered his will into the cheap plastic chair next to the door. Maybe that was why they were there, those chairs at every door; to catch you when you fell.
Steve clasped his hands together, interlocking his fingers and leaning forward, pressing his face into the joints of his thumb. Hands clasped into a single, unwieldy fist. Hands clasped in prayer.
Why? The question drifted in his mind, lingered in his mouth without being spoken. Why now? Why Mab? God, why all this cruelty?
Beyond the fear and grief, exhaustion lingered. It weighed at his shoulders, hunched his back, and bowed his head.
It was a cruel God that let him sleep, leading him into dreams.
Steve, Mab's voice whispered in his memory, beckoning from peaceful dreams. My hero, she smiled, whatever mockery intended never reaching her eyes or her smile.
In his dreams, there were days at museums.
In his dreams there was snow. And rain.
In his dreams, the sunset over a vast ocean glimmered in her eyes.
In his dreams, he had ten thousand lifetimes to listen to her laugh, with never a fear that she might not be there one day.
"Sleeping on the job?" Tony's voice startled Steve out of his near-sleep, and he grimaced in discomfort as he shifted in the chair, feeling a subtle bruise where an armrest had been trying to separate two ribs.
"Building's got the best security in the world," he answered, as if he wasn't embarrassed.
Tony snorted. "I hear they'll let anyone in these days."
Not true at all. Mab's presence in the building was a blessing, one Steve would not have thought to ask for. And for that he felt a suffocating weight of shame.
"So…" Tony said.
Steve smiled at the gentle interrogation. "Her name is Mab."
"I know that part."
"She's an editor."
"Boring ."
"And a poet."
"Ugh." Tony rolled his eyes. "You couldn't do better?" He didn't mean it; that was just how he talked. It had taken a long time to get used to words and tone that stood at odds with his actions; a chess master entire games ahead of his opponents, and today his opponent had been Death.
"No, I couldn't."
"Yeah." Tony looked around. "What are you doing out in the hallway, anyway? The rooms are huge, and I'm pretty sure there's a decent recliner in there."
Because he was ashamed. Because he had all this power at his disposal, he could have helped Mab so much sooner, if he'd only used his brain, or fought past the uncertainty and asked for help. Sure, he might have faced the same amount of amused interrogation he was suffering now, but was the fear of it worth the price of Mab's suffering?
Steve frowned. "I-" Steve stood up without warning.
Tony followed his concerned look down the perfect sterile hallway, where a shortish man in a tweed jacket was vey by led in their direction.
"That's Mab's uncle," Steve said.
Tony stood up. "I'll leave that to you, if you don't mind. Give me moment to make sure anything proprietary or classified is put away."
Steve frowned, suspicious of the oh-so-casual tone, but Tony slipped into Mabt's room and pulled the door shut before he could start asking questions.
The nurse leading the way was oblivious to the impending disaster, "She's just this way, Mr. Dumont, and this is-" she began, as way of a gentle introduction.
"You!" David hissed upon recognition, pointing an accusatory finger at Steve, who had only a moment to brace himself before the shorter man becan to spit metaphorical fire. "You! I should have known!"
The nurse blanched in horror. "Mr. Dumont, this is-!"
"I know very well who this is!" He spat. "And just because he's one of your sparkling heroes doesn't mean I should bow before him!"
Steve stood in silence. He understood David's wrath. He thought whatever he had to say, it couldn't be worse than what he already believed about himself.
"I warned you, I warned you, that if I had any question that you were going to hurt her-" David's voice cracked.
Steve stood there and took it. He let David hiss cold fury without a word of reply.
David's finger trembled as he pointed at Steve, jabbing a finger into Steve's chest hard enough to hurt himself. "She was in that hospital because of you, and then- then-" he trailed off, unable to describe the disaster in his own fury. "And why here?" he blurted out. "God forbid anyone connect her to this place, and… I don't even want to think about what could happen."
"She's getting the best care possible," Steve defended. It might be the only fact he would defend.
"She wouldn't need it if you hadn't dragged her out into the snow!" David roared, cheeks flush with rage. "What, being a hero isn't enough for you? Needed to hand-select a sympathetic fan-base? She-" he redirected that accusing finger at Mab's closed door, "doesn't deserve your ignorant neglect, and-" he spun to address the terrified nurse, "I don't want him anywhere near my niece! Is that understood?"
"Mr. Dumont, I-"Steve barely moved, barely tried to defend himself, without any real plan as to how to diffuse his rage. He didn't deserve to be there, he understood that.
But David Dumont had other plans. "You could have killed her!" he huffed after his exclamation, seemingly sourced from the very last of his rage. The medical floor had fallen completely silent as he vented his anger at the Avenger. Steve raised a hand to stop incoming security.
David caught his breath, and also regained some of his composure. In the utter silence of the medical floor his low voice carried some distance. "I'm not asking you to walk away, because I know that's too hard for people like you." David said. "I'm telling you this is the end."
David turned away from him, sweeping into Mab's room without another word. He didn't need to, of course. He'd made himself perfectly clear.
"Captain Rogers? I'm so sorry, but I'm going to need to ask you to leave this area."
"Yes ma'am." Steve turned crisply on his heel, a good soldier following orders. He could almost ignore the brutal silence of the floor, almost ignore the confused scattering of eyes that flickered his way, asking without words questions that he would not be able to answer.
A hollowness filled his mouth where words might form, holding his breath captive and swallowing his thoughts. Protestations and defense of his actions sputtered out like little stars dying in the yawning void.
No, he didn't deserve to fight for his Greed or Pride. An unrepentant sinner, he had nearly squandered away Mab's time, and for what? Some feeble grasping at a normal life, and a hand to hold? A dance partner?
He was rising, gravity planting him in the elevator and whisking him away from temptation without even a command. Friday knew, of course. The computer saw everything - would know of his shame, and the orders to keep his distance. Did it make the computer cold, or human, that it did not offer condolences?
The elevator doors opened, dumping him into the Avengers' common space. He stood one step onto that floor, suddenly unsure of what he was supposed to do.
"Steve?" a voice asked.
His head lifted, following the sound. Wanda stood near the kitchen, still in her uniform and slightly soot-stained. "How is-?" she asked, but caught herself. Worry gathered in her face, and a graceful hand flickered up to her chest, settling protectively over her heart. Like she could see it, could feel it; the grief rolling off of him in waves.
"Oh, Steve," she sighed. And maybe she could. She drew him over to the obscenely expensive sofas that Tony had scattered around the room, and made sure he sat down before vanishing down the hall.
What was he supposed to do now? He thought he'd understood the path he was choosing. Thought he'd had such a vision - of the threads of his life reaching out over an ocean, lights on the water, a hand in his-
"Steve, take a breath," someone said. Steve blinked, air rattling through his chest.
Sam crouched in front of him, his face calm but tone firm. "Hey there, can you tell me what happened?"
"I almost killed her, Sam," Steve's voice shook. "I almost killed her."
The first twenty-four hours, all David could do was watch the rise and fall of Mab's heartrate on the monitors, reassuring and cold. Nurses and doctors would flit past, making adjustments to the shining silver piece of technology they called a "Cradle", but only offered vague platitudes as to Mab's status.
"She's out of the woods now," they'd say with a comforting pat on his shoulder, or "we'll know more soon," which was somehow even less helpful. No one stayed in the room long enough for him to ask any actual questions.
The subsequent days, David kept idly thinking that he should have brought a book. Strange, how the mind so quickly adapted to emergencies. How fear and worry faded away into an idle boredom, even in the face of recurrent waves of an anxious forethought of grief.
The room was comfortable, and he never needed to go far for a coffee or something to eat. Strangely intuitive, it was the finest hospital that he'd ever visited. Even if it wasn't a real hospital.
No, this was a glorified office building. One with more security than Fort Knox, artificial intelligence running the elevators, and superheroes coming and going at all hours of the day. Thankfully, he'd yet to see one anywhere near Mab's room since he put his foot down. So there was honor, there, at least.
Or so he thought.
Just around a few corners from Mab's room, down the hallways he walked idly multiple times a day, a human personification of vapid apathy found David stirring creamer into his coffee in the cafeteria.
"Mr. Dumont?" the woman chirped brightly, her obscenely expensive high-heels click-clacking on the polished floors.
"Yes?" he asked cautiously, pulling his coffee closer like a steaming shield.
"Nice to finally meet you, I'm Sophie Donnager," she sang, but didn't hold out a hand for a handshake. "I'm from Stark Industries' legal department. Is now a good time?"
"Uh-" he stumbled, but Sophie led him swiftly over to one of the small steel-topped cafeteria tables.
"Great. As I'm sure you can guess, the Cradle is very expensive proprietary technology. Not something we can bill insurance for, you understand."
David's stomach dropped and he sat down heavily in a chair at the table. "I-, she-"
"But not to worry!" she chirped, as if she hadn't just threatened to bankrupt them. She set a very large stack of paperwork on the small cafeteria table, tabbed about two hundred times with yellow 'SIGN HERE' notes. "You have a standing power of attorney for Ms. Dumont, correct?" she asked, some of the sugar draining from her voice.
"... that's right." Just in case she ever ended up in this exact situation. Well, probably not this exact one, but unconscious and unable to advocate for herself.
And the sweetness was back. "Great! If you can just sign these, it'll all be taken care of."
David was starting to feel vaguely il. "All… be taken care of? What does that mean?"
"Well, with the acquisition of CareStar, Stark Industries is closing out some settlements with impacted parties, and Ms. Dumont is eligible for a very generous offer."
"What does that have to do with - what is CareStar?"
"Oh, I thought someone had explained it to you already. There was some diagnosis issues with their scanners, false positives for heart defects, and they settled out of court. Since Stark Industries acquired the company and its technologies, the Board of Directors wanted to tie up any loose ends, if you'll just - Mr. Dumont, are you alright?" she cut off as David turned an unappealing shade of green.
"I'm going to be sick," he gurgled, and lunged for the nearest trash can.
"Well when you're all done," she chirped, seemingly unconcerned, "we can talk settlements and signatures."
A/n: don't hate David too much.
This was originally going to go on for a bit but I decided to split it into two chapters for the sake of not jumping around too too much. So we're looking at another chapter or two as a lot of our first big arc wraps up.
In the next few chapters we'll see more of Ginny and Volkov and Miguel at the Raft, as well as Paul and Lukas, as we lean a little more into the meat of our plot.
Thank you for reading,
Aria