Steve wastes no time going upstairs, dropping off his things, leaving his phone on his bed, and disappearing back out the doors after telling Sam he'd be 'back later'.
Brown eyes follow him as he walks out the door but he ignores them.
He hates that he and Sam's relationship has been strained the past couple weeks.
Steve and Sam have grown incredibly close. The two have bonded over the course of the last few years and Steve thanks his lucky stars everyday that Sam came into his life. Into the house.
The kids are all flourishing. Getting enough food, going to school with clothes that actually fit and protect them in the winter. They get medical care when they're sick, and even toys at Christmas.
Steve remembers the kids' faces (and his own) when they'd walked down the stairs that first day of Christmas break to find a tree and the house all decorated. The kids had stared at the twinkling lights all day, and Sam and Sarah had taken them to each pick out their own favorite ornament from a local shoppe.
The pure joy on Christmas morning when not only delicious food was waiting for them, but presents. Actual presents.
He watched as Peter opened a box that had a mini robot in the shape of a spider. It was programmed (by Tony) to follow Peter around and even climb up and around him. Peter had giggled as the spider had scurried up his legs around his stomach and onto his shoulder.
Pietro had gotten a new skateboard, and Wanda had gotten a box set of I Love Lucy, which they spent all the next few days watching and laughing as a family.
Steve's throat constricts at the memory. He'd gotten a laptop and a new mattress. He'd tried to tell them that that was way too much, but Sam insisted on the laptop for school, and Howard had insisted that with his joints in the state that they're in, that the mattress was more for Howard's peace of mind than Steve's comfort. Steve had never slept so well.
The next Christmas had been even bigger. But Steve was proud of his siblings. They'd all opened their gifts and been quick to share, and play with others. Steve watched as the kids settled into a new routine of being loved and cared for.
Everything had been going great. Amazing. No one at school had even made the connection about him, the kids were taken care of, he had friends who genuinely cared for him, and something of a future.
Funny he should use the phrase Lucky Stars.
—
Steve wiggles through the slats in the fence. Entering the old abandoned Church yard and walking past the gravestones sinking into the ground. He's careful to not step on any of the plots. He makes it to the scaffolding and hauls himself up. He'd gotten taller. A bit. And the consistent nutrition from getting enough sleep, enough to eat, and not being abused had really been helping him. He'd been happy.
He'd gotten his hopes up.
Which… Following the trajectory of his life… had been a foolish thing to do.
He slips up the layers, avoiding the rusted spots and disintegrating boards. They'd been renovating this church and ran out of money. Now it sits on the plot, boarded up and half finished. Clint had showed him it one day, a place for a guy to think when things get tough.
Things had been tough.
So here he was.
He gets to the top level, and carefully hauls himself over the thick stone wall into the bell tower. He clambers into it and then sits on the ledge, the bell behind him as he gazes out onto the city.
—-
6 Months Prior
"What's that?" Wanda asks, pointing at the underside of his arm.
He looks down at where he's scratching and shrugs. "I dunno. Appeared yesterday."
"You should tell Sam."
He looks at it. "Yeah, maybe."
He doesn't. It goes away.
—
5 Months Prior
"Ugh." Steve groans, "my stomach hurts."
Bucky laughs, "probably shouldn't have eaten 6 pieces of french toast."
Steve huffs a laugh and groans again, "you're probably right."
The stomach ache lasts for days.
He's about to tell Sam when it goes away. So he doesn't.
—
4 Months Prior
Steve's out at the park with the kids when his stomach rolls. He feels nauseous and light headed and barely makes it to a bush before he's puking.
He stares at the pile of throw up.
It's red.
He tells himself that it's because they had spaghetti for lunch.
None of the kids have noticed his absence. He rejoins them to play.
—-
3 Months Prior
Steve begins to notice that his stomach ache never truly goes away. He starts eating less. Feigning not being as hungry. He starts to shrink again.
He's over at Bucky's when he knows he's going to throw up again. He excuses himself to the bathroom and turns on the sink.
He vomits as quietly as he can. The toilet bowl fills red and he grimaces. He hadn't had anything red today.
He stares at the blood and the bile and tries not to let the growing knot of dread overtake him.
He comes back home and Sam immediately asks if he's okay. Steve says he is.
—-
2 Months Prior
The rash reappears but it's on his back. No one ever expects him to have his shirt off. So he easily avoided questions.
He googles his symptoms and feels bogged down by what it could be. The sheer fear of even the possibility of it being one of the listed diseases keeps him from mentioning anything.
It goes away.
—-
1 Month Prior
He's tired. All the time. Feels like he's not getting enough sleep even though he finds himself sleeping more.
He falls asleep on the couch on his birthday. Bucky wakes him up a few times, then finally drags him off the couch for their now yearly tradition.
They sit on Bucky's roof, watching the fireworks and listening to Steve's favorite playlist. He takes a bite of peach pie and feels his stomach lurch.
He gently rests the fork on the plate and just listens as Natasha and Clint argue about something. He can't really focus on what they're saying.
"Steve?"
He jolts awake and looks at them, "what?"
Tony laughs, jabbing his own fork at him. "You're such an old man, Steve, falling asleep before midnight?"
Bucky looks at him, "you've been falling asleep all day. You need to sleep more."
Steve laughs weakly and nods. "Yeah, I think I do." He desperately tries to keep his eyes open. When he makes it back to his bed, he sleeps like the dead.
—-
Three Weeks and 4 Days Prior
Steve wakes up in the middle of the night. His stomach cramps and he clutches at it. He takes several deep breaths, trying to be quiet to not wake the others.
Then it churns and he knows something's wrong. He slips out of bed, pads to the bathroom and gets to the toilet just in time to vomit.
It's red again.
He sits back and waits, experience tells him that the still present churning in his stomach means another round of—
Yep. He vomits more blood and then settles weakly against the bathtub.
He falls asleep there.
Pounding on the door wakes him up.
He startles awake and looks around, confused and bleary eyed. The toilet full of blood catches his eyes and he flushes it quickly.
"Steve? Steve! Open this door!" It's Sam and he sounds panicked. Steve groggily gets to his feet and it's a good thing he looks at the mirror because there's dried blood on his chin. He scrubs at it quickly before unlocking the door.
Sam looks at him, panic on his face, "Steve? What happened? Are you okay?"
Steve blinks, trying to stay calm, "huh? Oh, yeah, I'm fine. Just using the bathroom. What's up?"
"Steve! I've been banging on the door for 5 minutes!"
Steve winces, "sorry."
"Don't 'sorry' me, Steve. You don't need to apologize. I just want to know what happened?"
"Just felt sick." Steve admits. "I threw up and I got tired and accidentally fell asleep here."
"You felt sick?"
"Yeah." Sam's eyes shift, the panic lessening but concern growing.
"How do you feel now?"
"I feel fine."
Sam's voice is slow as he inspects Steve, "Maybe it was something you ate?"
Steve shrugs. "Maybe."
—
Three Weeks and 3 Days Prior
Steve and Peter are building legos when he feels a wave of exhaustion roll over him.
He yawns and closes his eyes just for a second—
"Steve?"
He blinks awake and looks at the face above him. Sam.
"Steve, you with me?"
"Uh-hmm. Yeah, what's up?"
"Peter said you fell asleep."
Steve looks around, he's on the floor of the living room, back against the couch. "Huh. Yeah. I guess I did."
Sam is watching him. "You've been really tired the last couple months."
Steve says nothing.
"You feeling okay?"
"Yeah, yeah. Just… I think the thing yesterday tired me out."
Sam looks at Peter who is sitting there watching Steve, a worried look on his face.
"What thing?" Peter asks.
Steve smiles, "just ate something bad. Made my stomach all gross." He mimes throwing up all over Peter and it has the desired effect. The kid giggles and shrieks and Steve laughs with him. Steve looks up at Sam and smiles, "see? All good."
He catches Sam watching him throughout dinner and the next day.
—
Three Weeks and 1 Day Prior
They're at the supermarket. Sam's picking out stuff for the next couple days and Steve's helping. He enjoys helping in the kitchen, so Sam and him plan a menu and he helps when he can.
He's debating between smoked Gouda or regular Gouda when he feels it again. It's sudden and he lurches past Sam. "I'll be right back." He chokes out.
He can feel Sam watching him as he dodges around a corner and pushes into the mens' room. He's not going to make it to the toilet. He groans and lurches for the sink. Blood and bile and chunks of whatever he ate for breakfast reappearing.
The acid burns and his eyes water.
"Shit." He curses, looking at the mess. Blood drips down his chin, and he wipes it away with his hand. He looks at the sink. Most of it made it into the bowl of the sink, but maybe ⅕ cover the counter and the floor.
He grabs a bunch of paper towels and is starting to clean it up when he hears the hinges of the door squeak.
"Ste—"
He looks up to see Sam's reflection in the mirror. Except Sam's not looking at him. His eyes are focused on the bright red contrasting against the porcelain white.
Steve winces and turns to face Sam. "Sam, I'll be out in a minute, okay?"
"What the hell." Sam says, his voice only a rasp.
"Sam, I'm fine. I'll be out in a minute." Steve steps a bit to the side, trying to block the sink from Sam's view.
"Steve, what the hell, man!" Sam steps forward, looking at the sink and holding a hand over his mouth. "You're vomiting blood!?" He looks at Steve and his eyes widen, "since when!?"
All Steve can manage is a weak, "huh?"
Sam's eyes clench closed. "Steve, how long have you been vomiting blood?"
"I don't know."
"Don't bullshit me, Steve. How. Long."
Steve closes his eyes. His voice is small and quiet. "A few months." The choked sound Sam makes causes Steve to wince. "Sorry, I'm sorry." He feels his throat constrict and Sam's eyes open back up. Furious and sad and agonized.
"Steve, why didn't you tell me?"
Steve scrubs a hand through his hair and immediately regrets it. The wet foul-smelling blood marking him red. He looks up at Sam and everything he's been hiding for the past 6 months overwhelms him. "I was scared." He rasps. He shoves his head in his clean hand and starts to cry.
He feels Sam wrap his arms around him, not caring about the blood of the smell and he cries harder.
—
Sam sneaks Steve into the house and into the shower before anyone can see him and ask why he looks like he's been in a horror movie.
—
Three Weeks Prior
Steve sits on the exam bed and his feet swing softly. He watches as Sam watches the door and he feels guilt.
He should have told him.
The door opens and Steve feels his back go ramrod straight.
"What is it, Doc?" Sam asks.
The doctor looks at Sam, and then looks at Steve, and it's the sheer volume of the silence that tells Steve that this isn't going to be good.
—-
AutoImmune Hepatitis.
"I thought…" Steve starts, "Hepatitis? I thought…"
The doctor nods. "Maybe usually or most commonly, but with your medical history… I think it was triggered by measles, or…" he looks at Sam, then back at Steve. "Environmental factors… Stress… Malnutrition… infections, viruses, it can also be genetic." The doctor sighs. "I'm very sorry."
Sam looks stunned, unable to speak or blink or do anything. So Steve takes a deep breath and asks what he needs to ask. "Is it terminal?"
The doctor's eyes get sad. "Well… When caught early there are plenty of treatments that can be done to help slow the disease."
Steve doesn't miss the clarification. "Was mine caught early?"
"You said you first started feeling symptoms 6 months ago?"
Steve nods.
"That is pretty early…"
"But?" It's Sam this time. He hears the pause in the doctor's statement. "It's pretty early… but?"
The doctor winces. "All the treatments prescribed for this disease… Would negatively affect your heart. The medication we would prescribe would lower your immune system and probably bring up a whole host of problems considering your medical history. Not to mention with your joints in the state they are…"
Steve tunes out— The doctor's speaking about other reasons why the ways to help the disease would harm him in the long run.
"What about a liver transplant?" Sam asks, bringing him out of his reverie.
The doctor pushes his tongue against the side of his mouth. "You have to understand…" He looks at Steve and the sorrow in them is genuine and Steve feels his lungs constrict. "The board looks at the viability of each patient and decides whether they get a liver by priority." His lips purse and he sighs deeply through his nose. "Your heart… and your lungs… and your joints… and everything else makes not only surgery difficult, it makes it dangerous." He looks at Sam, "And the worst and most unfair part of this is… That because of your medical history, you'd be unlikely to be considered a 'viable candidate'."
Steve closes his eyes. He wants to go. He wants to be out of here. He needs to leave.
"You're saying that this "board" of people would say Steve doesn't deserve a liver?"
"This is not an issue of deserving. I know it sounds horrible, but they will look at two charts and pick the one they think will survive with the new liver the longest. Because of Steve's exasperated heart condition, he simply wouldn't be chosen. I know you have big connections… but getting him a new liver won't solve the problem. He'll still carry this disease, most likely for the rest of his life."
"I'm right here." Steve rasps out. "Rest of my life."
The doctor nods, "my apologies. I don't mean to sound uncaring. I can't imagine how difficult this is to hear, I just want to be honest about your chances. I'm not in the business of giving false hope. I want you to be prepared—"
"Prepared for what?" Sam asks, cutting him off.
The doctor points his pen at Steve. "You'll have to decide what direction you want to go. Medication to help this will most likely cause harm to your heart. Focusing on your heart, will allow these symptoms to continue, to worsen."
"This is some sort of sick joke." Sam snaps. "Not after everything. Not now."
"Worsen how?" Steve asks.
"Fatigue, chronic abdominal issues, cirrhosis of the liver, glaucoma, blindness, especially in your eyes that are already weak." Steve's fist clench. Weak. "Yellowing of the eyes and skin as the liver shuts down."
"Stop." Sam says. "Please stop."
"How long?"
Sam's eyes whip to his but he doesn't look over. He stares at the doctor, waiting for an answer.
"It's difficult to say, a prognosis with this many variables is—"
"HOW LONG!" Steve shouts, jumping off the table and voice cracking. "With my heart it was 30, but now with this?! Just tell me. Just tell me so I know. I need to know."
The doctor looks down at his chart and sighs heavily. "I would estimate… If we find the right balance of medication… or if you are able to get a liver or…" he looks up at Steve and his eyes are tight as he tells Steve his guess.
5 years.
Five.
22.
He'll be 22 when he's dead.
The car ride is silent.
—-
Sam asks when he's going to tell the others. Steve glares at him and tells him that he's not.
"Steve—"
"Sam."
"Why?"
"You know why."
"Steve—"
"NO." Steve snaps. "You see the way they treat me already, like a toddler that has to be babysat constantly! I get it, they love me, they want to help, they did, they do. But how would they help this, huh? How would knowing this help them? It wouldn't." He grinds out. "It would just make all of them miserable like it's already made you miserable."
"I'm not—"
"Sam. I get it. You got dealt the shitty cards of having to take care of me, the kid who has more issues than a magazine company, but I don't have any control over that. " Sam looks angry and about to protest but Steve keeps talking, something cold and calm and accepting falling over him. "I actually have very little control over my life in general, especially when it comes to my health." He points at his heart, "you know how many tests Howard has run? How many vials of blood he's drawn? I know he's trying to help. I want his help. But… It makes me feel like I'm a lab rat running the same stupid maze over and over again and there's no prize at the end. Just another trap. I had to beg him to take a break, to let me have a couple months where I didn't have to be in that lab every week." Sam's jaw is tight and Steve sighs, "I'm really sorry, I hate that you have to know. I wish you didn't. I wish I could just have no one know so that no one is miserable, but it's too late for that. So please. Please. It's my life. It's my right to not want them to know this. When I don't have a choice or if they find out… then fine. But until then… Let me live the next few…" He cuts off, his throat getting tight, but he pushes on, "however long I have without them treating me like I'm made of glass. Okay?"
"Steve, man, you gotta—"
"Sam. It's my choice. It's not your business to tell. You're really going to take that choice away from me?" It's a low blow, and he sees Sam grimace at it. But it's effective.
"I won't say. But let the record state that I think you should."
"You promise?"
"I promise, Steve."
"Thank you."
—-
2 & ½ Weeks Prior
He and some of the other kids are sitting out on the steps of the house when a car comes peeling up to the front.
Howard.
Steve internally groans. Howard has been out of town for the last week.
He watches as Howard steps out of his car and looks right at Steve. A wild expression in his eyes.
"Get in the car now."
"Howard—"
"Steve, so help me god, if you do not get in this car right this minute I will—"
"Okay!" Steve snaps, standing up. He looks back at Pietro who is staring at him in confusion. "Can you go tell Sam that Howard picked me up?" Pietro nods and Steve walks slowly to the car, sliding into the front seat.
—-
"Steve." Howards voice is tight and angry.
Steve says nothing.
"Tell me why I get a ping from a doctor's appointment that I had no knowledge of." he glares at Steve and then puts his eyes back on the road.
Steve's irritation shows through his voice, "because I went to the doctor's."
Howard slams on the brakes and they squeal to a stop. "Steve, you've been vomiting blood for four months!" His knuckles are white on the steering wheel.
"So."
Realization dawns on Howard, "is that why you asked to take a break from doing tests?" Steve winces and Howard sees. "SHIT." He slams his palm against the steering wheel and glares out at the road. "WHY!" He sounds angry and sad. "Why keep this from us?"
Steve's voice is bitter, "because seeing Sam, and now you, react to it has been so much fun." Wide eyes turn towards him and he can feel the concern at his attitude rolling off Howard in waves. "Sorry." He snaps.
"I'm starting the tests back up."
"Howard—"
"Steve. I'm not giving up. Why are you?"
"I"m not." Steve growls. "I'm not."
"Good." Howard starts driving again. "My house. Tomorrow afternoon."
"No."
"Steve."
"No, school's going to start soon, and the bruising the needles cause is hard to hide."
"I won't draw more blood." Howard pleads, "I'll do other tests."
"Howard—"
"Steve, please."
"Howard." Steve says sharply, then he takes a deep breath and softens his voice. "I know you made that promise in the hospital. But it's okay. I never held you to it, okay? Emotions were running high and we all said stuff we didn't mean." He remembers Bucky filling him in on his drug-addled speech from that night a year later. "You don't owe anything to me. In fact, I owe a lot more to you, so don't worry about it. Promise forgotten."
—
Howard has never been so silent. He doesn't respond. And just drives the car in a square until he pulls back up in front of the house.
Howard still hasn't said anything and Steve makes a move to exit the car.
A hand grabs his arm gently and he looks back to Howard whose face is pure agony.
"Please, Steve. Please. Let me try. I have to try. I have to."
Steve looks out at the kids who are still sitting and talking and playing on the stairs.
"Fine. I'll do it for you. On one condition."
"Anything." Howard says quickly.
"You don't tell anyone about this."
Howard's eyes widen, "what? No. You—"
Steve glares at him, "that's my condition. You want me as your lab rat? Fine." Howard winces at his words, but Steve doesn't stop. "But if I do that, then you have no right to tell anyone else about this. Nothing. The minute you tell them? Tests over. I'm done. Got it?"
Howards face is pinched and jaw tight as he looks at Steve.
"Well?" Steve growls. "What'll it be?"
"Fine." Howard hisses out. "I'll see you at my house tomorrow. 3p.m. Sharp." Steve nods firmly and exits the car.
He steps back and Howard takes off.
—-
Present
The afternoon breeze makes him shiver, and he tugs his coat around him tighter.
He's only been there for maybe 20 minutes when he hears a creak.
He sighs. Crap.
Not minutes later a hand reaches over the ledge and pulls itself up.
Blonde hair and a calm face appear.
"Hey Clint." Steve says, turning back to look out at the city.
"Hey Steve."
There's silence as Clint settles next to him. He takes out a safety pin he has in his pocket and tosses it behind him. The bell makes a tiny 'ding' sound and Clint smiles.
"So." Clint starts.
Steve is silent.
"Tough day?"
"Let's not pretend Bucky hasn't told everyone."
Clint nods, his head dipping up and down comically. "Haven't heard him cuss this much in awhile." He doesn't respond. He imagines his phone buzzing so much it falls off the bed.
"That why you left your phone at the house?" Clint asks as if sensing his thoughts.
Steve glares at Clint. "Puh-lease. Let's also not pretend that Tony can't track me using that. Even if I had turned it off, he would have found me."
"And you don't wanna be found?"
"No."
Steve doesn't miss the way the hurt flashes across Clint's face. Guilt blooms in his chest and he apologizes. "No. I didn't mean it like that. I don't mind you."
Clint smiles, "oh yeah? Cuz, I'm more chill than them?"
Steve smiles back, "no. Because you want to respect my privacy."
Clint flinches and Steve smirks. Gotcha.
"Oof. Low blow, Rogers."
He looks out and leans his head on his hands. "So. Whatcha need Clint?"
The waves of concern roll off Clint. Steve can feel the question right on the tip of Clint's tongue. But he doesn't look. He just stares at the city that he's grown up in as it prepares for the evening.
"Nothin'." Clint finally huffs out. "Just missed you. Haven't seen you in awhile."
"I saw you yesterday." Steve snaps.
"Yikes. Am I coming on too strong? You want some space? It's you, not me?"
"Shut the hell up, Clint."
"Make me, Steve."
"Go away."
"No."
"Did you tell Bucky and Natasha where I am? Are they going to climb up here too and ruin the one place that I can have some peace? Barring this moment obviously?"
Clint's eyes get sad. Guilt blooms again. There's that bad mood Natasha's talking about.
"Sorry." He says softly, "you know I didn't mean that."
Clint looks at him, eyebrows furrowed. "Maybe you did."
Steve sets his face in the crook of his elbow and whispers, "maybe I did."
He whispers it quietly. But Clint must have heard because when he looks up a few minutes later. He's gone.
—-
*A/N - Thank you to those who have commented! I'm glad you're sticking around!