Bucky waves goodbye to the group as he and Tony drive back to the airport. There's a lightness to the group now, a sense of hope that maybe things are about to change for the better. Steve, Natasha, and Clint wave vigorously back. He looks at them one more time to see Clint say something to the other two that has Steve laughing, clutching his stomach and Natasha smacking Clint's arm so hard that Bucky can practically hear the sound from the car.
He looks at Tony who's looking at the other three too.
"You ever think about leaving MIT?" Bucky asks, his eyes trained on their friends.
Tony huffs out a laugh, "I hate being left out of stuff. So yeah, but I know that it will be worth it. I want my degree and then I'll be back. Why, you thinking about it?"
Bucky sighs, "I mean, I want to be here with them. But… Like you said, I want my degree. I can make a good life for myself as an engineer, and I want that. I want to be able to provide for—" he stops, feeling his neck heat at the implication he plans to marry Natasha. "Well, I just want to make sure I do my best. And my parents would be bummed if I dropped. So I won't. But it does suck being out of state from them."
They're quiet the rest of the way to the airport.
—-
Steve smiles ruefully as Peggy gently traces the shape of the bruise on his face. She's leaving in less than an hour and he's happy he gets to spend the last minutes with her.
She leans forward and kisses his cheek gently, then his lips and rests her forehead on his. "I don't want to leave you again. Not now."
"What do you mean not now?" He says with a laugh, "you've given me more hope than I've had since August!"
She smiles, her eyes twinkling. "You know that thing we said at the beginning? That all this feels like fate? Meant to be?"
He chuckles softly, "yeah, I do, why?"
"This feels like part of that." She says softly, "like meeting you… I'm meant to help save you—" She wrinkles her nose, "not like—" she frowns, "I don't mean it like I'm your savior, I just mean…" she huffs, rolling her eyes at herself, "I just mean I'm glad that we met and that I was able to make that connection. I mean, you're mine, and I want you around for the rest of my life." He tries not to laugh, and she tilts her head, "you're making fun of me."
His eyes widen, "what! No! I think you're adorable when you get all jumbled with what you're trying to say."
She lightly smacks his arm, "I am not."
Steve leans forward, kissing her once and then again. "I'm going to miss you too."
She frowns and she rests her head against his shoulder. "I'll be back in just under a month for Thanksgiving."
Her father's car pulls up and she stands, "I'll see you soon, okay? I'll call when I'm back in my dorm."
He starts to stand but she shakes her head, "don't." She leans down and kisses him goodbye. "I love you, Steve."
"I love you too, Peggy." She sighed as she pulled away and got into her car.
—-
"Steven Rogers, wake up!"
Steve drags his head up and blinks, thinking he'd overslept his alarm again, only to find Mrs. Hawkins looking at him.
He rubs at his eyes and looks around, he's in Trig and everyone is staring at him. "Uh—" he starts, swallowing thickly, still feeling fuzzy with sleep, "I'm sorry—"
"Sleeping in class is disrespectful. Detention after school, Mr. Rogers."
He doesn't know what to say so he just nods.
—-
His phone buzzes.
It's from Sam
S: Why did I just get an email that you have detention?
Steve sighs, typing back.
S: I fell asleep in class. I don't even know how. I'm sorry.
The three bubbles appear and then disappear. Then they appear.
S: Did you tell her why? I mean it's not like you were purposefully sleeping.
He stops outside his next class, and looks at the text. Mrs. Hawkins wasn't a new teacher. But she'd never taught him or any of his friends. And if she knew anything about Steve, she never let on. She didn't treat him like he was made of glass. So either way… Steve didn't want to pull that card.
S: I mean, I could have, but then I'd look like I'm asking for special treatment. And I just don't want that. I'll just take detention and then I'll be more careful. It's fine, I promise.
There's a few minutes before Sam responds.
S: I mean, if that's what you want to do.
Steve doesn't respond. He already is let off the hook for so many things, he doesn't feel like using one more excuse. He'll take his detention and then he can try to come up with ways to ensure he stays awake.
—
Scott looks at Steve in annoyance.
"Listen, it's just one detention. It's nothing."
"You could fight it."
"I don't want to."
"Why the hell not? Detention sucks!"
"I'm tired of people letting me get away with things because they know I'm sick."
"That's the best reason to get away with things!"
Steve laughs, "Scott, it's fine. I'll see you tomorrow."
Scott frowns at him, but lets him walk away. His cane making its soft 'thumps' on the linoleum.
—-
Except Steve should have known that everytime something good happens to him, it's closely followed by a reminder of how the universe plays favorites. And he's not one of them.
He walks into detention and sits down. Only recognizing maybe two out of the 5 faces, and never having spoken to a single one of them.
Until he walks in.
Ranger Rick.
Steve internally sighs. He'd never learned the kid's name and here he was, the guy both he and Bucky had punched, looking at him like he was a piece of meat he intended to flatten.
"Hey, it's bastard boy." The kid says, sliding into the seat next to Steve's.
Don't respond. Don't respond. Don't respond.
"Hey, I'm talking to you." The kid hisses at him, "don't pretend you're too good to talk to me."
Steve turns to face him, "what do you want?"
"Geez, your eyes are freaky man—" the kid leans back as if grossed out, then he smirks, "so you're a blind bastard boy."
Steve just rolls his eyes and goes back to facing the front.
The kid flicks his arm, "why'd you get detention huh? Assault someone else who was innocent?"
Steve stays quiet, hoping the teacher gets here soon.
"You know. I've been waiting for a moment just like this to have a little discussion. Now that your guard dog is gone."
And something about that actually makes him sigh out loud because it's actually a good point. He turns to the kid, "you know, I never apologized for punching you. I shouldn't have done that. And Bucky shouldn't have punched you either. We were both having a really bad week and we shouldn't have reacted the way we did. So I'm sorry." He says it honestly, hoping the kid believes him, because it's true. They shouldn't have punched him. No matter what he'd said.
The kid blinks at him, studying him, obviously trying to decide if this was a ruse.
But Steve stays calm, not backing away from the apology. The supervisor walks in, breaking the tension and Steve turns back to the front. The kid slinks out of the desk and picks a different one, further away.
Steve just opens up his backpack and pulls out his Trig textbook, starting on his homework.
—
It's 2 and a half long hours, but then it's over and Steve is packing up. The supervisor is waiting for them all to clear out. He slings his backpack over his shoulder and picks up his cane, making his way to the door.
And he's waiting there.
"Hey."
Steve looks up at the mean look on the kids face, "hey."
The kid looks down, noticing the cane for the first time. He laughs, "you're that kid?!" He guffaws and points at Steve, "I heard we had an old man in our school, I didn't know it was you." He looks at Steve smugly, "sounds like Karma."
Steve grits his teeth and inhales a deep breath through his nose. This cannot end in a fight. Not only would he lose, but everyone would be pissed. And he's already in enough pain that adding to it does not sound pleasant.
"Listen," Steve says calmly, "I'm sorry about what happened last year—"
The kid leans in, eyes narrowed and face angry, "yeah, I was thinking about your convenient little apology." He stabs a finger into Steve's chest, "nice attempt to try to save yourself from the beat down you deserve now that you don't have that idiot to protect you."
Steve doesn't curse often, but he wants to.
Clint's voice echoes in his head. Just walk away.
Peter's is next. Get a teacher.
He looks at the kid, "sorry, you feel that way. I promise my apology is real." Steve turns, hoping to be able to end the conversation there. The supervisor is still in the classroom, out of their sight, and the last kid is turning the corner down the hallway.
No such luck.
He feels the cane get snatched out of his grip and suddenly he's teetering on unbalanced. He sets his bag down and takes a hobbling step back, steadying himself against the lockers.
He turns to see the kid watching him with narrowed eyes. "What?" Steve asks, trying to keep his voice calm. "What now?"
"Now I get to teach you a lesson for you and your pal hitting me."
Steve feels his anger rising, "okay." He snaps, "fine." He could call out to the teacher, he's not too far from the classroom door. And if the teacher isn't in his office then he might hear.
The kid glares at him, "admit your friend is a weak little bitch."
Oh no. Physical beatings Steve is used to. Talking about Bucky like that? That's what got him into this mess to begin with.
"You're not very smart, are you?" Steve snaps, "I'm not saying anything to make you feel better. I already apologized for my actions, what more do you want? Comeuppance? Okay fine, punch me then. Don't go trying to assert your meager power over me just because you're physically stronger."
The kid is really glaring at him now, "if they're such great friends, why did they leave you all alone?"
Steve scoffs, in disbelief that he's having this conversation, "they graduated." He shakes his head, "do you know what that means?"
The kid snarls at him and steps forward. Steve leans towards him, unafraid, waiting for the hit to come.
"Go home, guys." The voice of the teacher says, unamused annoyance in his tone.
The kid glares at him and walks away. The teacher eyes him and then walks back into his classroom.
Steve stands there, adrenaline crashing his system and his heart beating a bit too hard. He takes breaths, hoping it won't alert Howard.
He picks up his backpack, wincing at the tug on his sensitive skin.
And then he realizes.
The kid took his cane.
The deep withering sigh that exits his mouth echoes through the hallway. He uses the lockers for support as he walks stiffly down the hallway.
—
It takes him forever to get home.
He makes it to the front steps and sits down, his bones and joints and muscles and everything aching.
A few minutes go by and he feels his phone buzz. He pulls it out and see it's Sam.
"Hey Sam."
"Hey, Steve. You getting home anytime soon?"
"I'm here." Steve says, trying to keep the wheeze out of his voice, "I'm outside."
He hears footsteps and the door creaks open. He looks up to see Sam looking at him in concern. "What happened?"
"Tired."
"More than usual?"
Steve nods.
"Okay, here let me help you inside."
Sam gets him on his feet and he sets him on the couch in the living room.
"Thanks." Steve says, shifting to get more comfortable, "all the rest of the kids back?"
Sam nods, "yeah most are eating dinner, you hungry?"
He's not.
"Uh, sure."
Sam disappears and reappears with a tray. A small amount of pasta, bread, and salad are on the plate. "Thanks, Sam."
"Peter asked if you were home, apparently you promised to build legos?"
Steve's mouth parts in surprise, then he groans, "yeah, I did, he got that new set for his birthday and we never built it."
Sam nods, "you still up for it?"
Steve rolls his shoulders, "I gotta be."
It's a quiet "okay" that Sam gives him.
—-
He's doing okay, helping Peter put pieces together and laughing and talking with the kid.
"There's this new girl in my class." Peter says, chatting at him, "she seems a bit shy, but I can tell she's real smart." He's trying to undo two tiny pieces and struggling.
Steve chuckles, "here, let me see—" he takes the pieces and pulls them apart, handing them back.
"She's definitely going to be on our mathletes team." Peter says happily as he readjusts the pieces and clicks them to the bigger build.
"That's awesome, Pete." Steve says yawning, "how's Ned?"
Peter starts to talk excitedly about the kid Steve's met a few times who seems really nice.
He looks up to see Sam standing in the doorway watching them. There's a look on Sam's face.
"What?" Steve asks, looking around, trying to find out what he's seeing.
"Peter?" Sam calls, "probably time for you to start getting to bed."
The kid protests for a few moments but Sam doesn't relent. Eventually the kid grumbles goodnaturedly as he heads out of the room.
The look on Sam's face outs Steve on edge. "What, Sam?"
"Where's your cane?"
Steve winces. He'd been hoping no one would notice. He has two extra in his room from Howard just in case. He was hoping to get to one of those before anyone noticed.
"I left it at school."
"Steve?"
He can't meet his dad's eyes, "yeah?"
"Something you need to tell me?"
"Nope."
He feels an arm grasp his, and Sam helps him up, "okay, then let's get you upstairs."
When Sam doesn't press about it anymore, Steve feels the guilt for not telling him grow deeper.
—
Natasha bows, sweeping her hand down and back up gracefully. She straightens and looks at the judges, hoping they liked her piece.
Every dancer was required to choreograph and perform multiple pieces a year. And every one said the first one really told the teachers whether you belonged at the school or not.
If she got a good score, she would be more likely to stay and complete the program. If she didn't, it was. A good indication she wasn't cut out for the program.
She waits as the judges deliberate. The girls who had danced before her all stand nervously.
In the end she receives the highest marks out of the whole set of dancers. She smiles widely and accepts their cheers just as she cheers for them too.
—-
Bucky smiles at the video message Natasha had just sent. He knew she'd do well, but he was thrilled for her excitement all the same.
Monty, his roommate, was just getting back in the room.
"You finish the curvature assignment yet?" The guy asks.
Bucky groans and shakes his head, "I started it, but I need to hit the library to finish it."
Monty nods and throws something at him. He picks it up and examines the envelope.
"What's this?"
"Some guy with wild hair gave it to me for you."
"Who was it?"
"I don't know, he didn't say."
Wild hair… He rolls his eyes, it was probably Tony. It's not that Bucky kept it a secret that he was friends with Tony but he didn't advertise it. Anyone who was public about their friendship with Tony was usually after something. "You didn't recognize him?"
Monty shrugs, "I mean, I suppose he looked familiar." Bucky laughed softly, just like Peggy.
"Okay, well thanks."
He rips into the envelope and looks at the fancy invitation.
An invitation for him and his whole family to eat Thanksgiving lunch at the Starks.
He smiles and shakes his head.
—
Yesterday, when he was in the living room and was working on homework, Mrs. Stark had walked in and asked if he needed anything.
"No, I'm good, thanks."
She'd been about to walk away when she'd picked up the candy bar that he had out on the table as incentive to keep reading his textbook.
"They still make these?" She asked in incredulity.
He'd looked at the 100 Grand Bar that was in her hand. "Yeah, they're my favorite."
Her eyes had gotten a bit misty, "I didn't realize they still made these."
Clint had been surprised at the emotional reaction, "were they your favorite?"
She shook her head, "me and my sister loved these as kids."
"Sister?"
He had looked at her in surprise and the woman had smiled, "Steve hasn't told you?"
"Steve?"
The woman had shaken her head, "Never mind." She'd set the candy bar down and smiled, "you get on with your work, sorry to disturb you."
He'd picked up the candy bar and held it to her, "here, you have it."
She'd refused, "no, no, I'm okay, thank you though." And she'd walked away quickly.
Now Clint is standing in line at the little grocery mart. An extra large sized 100 Grand Bar in his hand. He'd text Steve later and try to get the story out of him, but for now he just wanted to do something nice for the lady who had taken him into their home and made him feel welcome.
He pays and takes the change, heading out the door when a voice stops him.
"Well if it isn't Baby Barton."
Clint feels all his blood rush to his head as he spins slowly.
A smug Brock Rumlow stares at him, holding a bottle of something in his hand.
Brock's eyes glance down at Clint's fists, which have tightly balled up against his jeans.
"Uh-oh, what's wrong?" Brock asks mock innocently, "you look upset?"
"He could have died." Clint snaps, his voice a snarl. And the level of anger must surprise both of them because they both tilt back a little.
Even over three years later it's somehow still as fresh as the day Clint pulled him from that dumpster.
Rumlow regains his composure and his face is back to a smirk, "who?" He asks, tilting his head.
"You're a piece of shit you know that." Clint growls.
Rumlow just shrugs, "How is Steve, huh?" He asks, stepping closer, "I heard about his trial and everything—"
"It wasn't his trial—" Clint snaps back, "and you know that. Your lackeys are in prison where you should be."
Rumlow makes a 'tsk tsk' noise, "my, my, the temper that runs through your group."
"Cut the crap, Rumlow, you're a low-life piece of scum and someday I'll figure out how to bring you down."
The guy's eyes darken considerably and his face turns angry, "big words for someone who can't even help save his precious little dying boy." Dread fills Clint's gut. What does he know? Rumlow smiles at his silence, "that's right. You think I don't know?"
"Know what?"
"My uncle was security at the trial. Steve's got the big bad auto-immune disease. His days are numbered. Stark is a quack if he thinks he can save him."
Clint's hand snakes forward, he almost grabs Rumlow's collar, wants to slam his forehead against his face, but he stops. He can almost picture Steve standing behind Rumlow with a wry frown on his face. Don't do it. Steve would say, it's not worth it.
So he stops. Slowly retracting his hand and glaring at Rumlow, "watch your back." Clint says tightly, "I know the Starks, they'll figure out a way to nail you in court. And then you'll be in prison where you belong too."
Rumlow laughs, "watch my back?" He guffaws and breezes past Clint, stopping at the door. The bell above jingles, a happy few notes as Rumlow's last words send ice down Clint's spine. "My back's not the one hobbling to school with a cane everyday, now is it?"
Clint's frozen there for long minutes before he's able to move.
—
Steve answers the phone "Clint?"
A panting voice is on the other side of the line, "Clint?"
"Steve?"
His brow furrows, "yeah, Clint, are you okay?"
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah…" he hears a car horn go off and he frowns, "Clint, what's going on?"
Clint's voice comes through, slightly panicked, "you're at home?"
Steve looks around the living room. Wanda and Yelena are working on history homework and Pietro is on his phone. Peter and Daniel are finishing up his lego set.
"Yeah, Clint. I'm at home."
Another sigh of relief.
"Clint, care to fill me in?"
"Just—" Clint starts, his voice on edge, "just stay there, okay?"
"It's nighttime Clint, I always stay home." He means it as a joke but Clint's voice snaps at him.
"I'm walking with you to school tomorrow."
"What?" Steve asks, confused as all get out. But then he hears the door open and all their heads pop up as Clint comes bolting into the room. He looks worn out and for some reason there's a candy bar scrunched in his hand. "Clint, what's happening?"
The guy sinks to the floor, leaning his head back against the wall. "You're safe."
Steve holds out his arms and shakes them, "safe from what?"
But Clint doesn't answer. He snakes his hand out and grabs one of Steve's, as if testing if he was really there. And that makes the concern ratchet up several levels.
"Clint, you're worrying me." His eyes flick to the rest of the kids who are staring at the two in confusion and concern.
"I gotta talk to Sam." Clint says suddenly, jumping up and disappearing. Steve starts to stand but his joints protest and he sits back down. He looks at the kids and they're still looking at him.
"Don't look at me." He says in a huff, "I have no idea what that was about."
—
Sam stares at him, his jaw flexed tight and eyes raging mad.
"You're kidding."
"I'm not." Clint seethes, stabbing a finger at the table, "Rumlow practically threatened Steve! We can't let him go anywhere alone!"
Sam's rubbing at his eyes and he sinks into a seat. "He's not going to like that."
"Well he can just get the hell used to it, because it's happening."
"Have you told the others?"
Clint scoffs, "you want them to quit college and come here and stand around Steve like he's got private security?" He knows that's exactly what Bucky and Natasha and probably Tony would do.
Sam grimaces, "no."
"Then I'm not telling them."
"Maybe—" Sam sighs and looks at the doorway, "maybe I have a better idea."
—-
Steve walks out the door and is surprised to see Happy there. With a car.
"Hey Happy." Steve says slowly, "Mr. Stark need something?"
"Yep." Happy says with a smile, "he needs you to get into this car and ride to school."
Steve stops, his can gripped tightly in his hand, "what?"
"I'm here to drive you to school."
"Why?"
"Because my boss asked me too."
Steve grits his teeth, "and why did he ask you too?"
Even if the man knows, he pretends not to. Just shrugs.
Steve digs in his pocket and pulls out his phone. He knows this has something to do with how Clint behaved yesterday. He just doesn't know what that is. He clicks the contact and Howard answers before the first ring is finished.
"Before you fight me, just listen, okay?"
Steve's mouth is open, ready to argue, but he snaps it shut. "Fine, you have 20 seconds."
"Your body is deteriorating. Eventually you will have to use a wheelchair. But the strain of you walking to and from school everyday is making that day approach even faster." Howard's speaking very fast, "so if we eliminate that stresser, it should help you body function better and be more rested and put off the days of you wheeling around, which is what you want right? And it puts Sam and me at peace knowing you're not passed out somewhere."
"Howard—"
"Come on, Steve!" Howard snaps, "you're a smart kid, you've got common sense! You're practical! Apply those skills here. You want to stay on your feet as long as possible right? So help yourself by taking the car to and from school. It will help!"
Steve's shoulders sag and he sighs, "okay, fine."
"Good." Howard says crisply, "not get in the car."
Steve shoves his phone back in his pocket and walks to the car. Happy opens the door and he slides in.
"Thanks." Steve says once the man is in the driver's seat.
"Don't mention it, kid."
—
Clint watches from around the corner as Steve hangs up his phone and walks to the car. Steve gets in and soon the car is gone. Clint walks around and waits until Sam pokes his head out the door, "he gone?"
Clint nods, "yeah, Howard was right, it worked."
"Okay." Sam says softly, "that's good. One less place for him to be alone."
Clint sighs and Elena's against the brick sides that line the stairs. "I hope Howard and Erskine work quickly."
Sam looks off into the distance, "yeah, me too." His voice doesn't show any emotion.
"What?"
"What, what?"
"You say that like you don't have any hope for them to figure it out."
Sam's face gets sad, "figure out the magical formula to save Steve?"
Clint feels his chest get tight, "you don't think it's possible."
Sam frowns and he steps out, closing the door behind him, "anything's possible I suppose." He says with no real conviction, "but…" he blinks a few times, "I just don't know how they're going to create some magical procedure to heal Steve. That sounds like science fiction."
"It's Howard Stark. He'll figure it out."
And this time Sam's voice is honest when he shrugs, "I hope so."
Clint breathes out deeply and glares at Sam, "it's possible."
Sam just nods and somehow that makes Clint even more angry. "You have to believe it's going to work, Sam." He says in an accusing tone, "why do you think Howard can do it?"
Sam looks at him, pain in his expression, "this has nothing to do with my belief in Howard's ability."
"Then what!"
Sam's eyes track the direction that the car left in, "I've just never met a kid with the amount of bad luck Steve has had. Everyday, I wait for a call or a text or the police to come knocking telling me there's been an accident or a fight or something."
Clint's throat is dry, because he relates to the feeling.
"And—" Sam's voice gets brittle, "and I don't know what I'll do when that day comes." He looks down and scrubs at his eyes, "you know I have this nightmare where I go up to Steve's room to wake him up." Sam looks a hundred years old as he looks back at Clint, "and I can't. I can't wake him up. You know why?"
"Stop." Clint says, closing his eyes against the image, "stop."
Suddenly Sam blinks and he sighs, "I'm sorry Clint, that's—" he looks guilty, "that's not what… I shouldn't have said that. I shouldn't have put that on you. That's not fair of me, I'm sorry. I know you care about Steve and it will all work out, okay?"
He leaves Clint standing outside, feeling hollow.
—
Clint wakes up, sweating and panting, he sucks in deep breaths, calming his heart rate.
The blank lifeless look on Steve's face when Clint had tried to shake him awake waits for him when he closes his eyes.
So he opens them back up and sits on the edge of the bed.
Ever since Sam had accidentally let slip what his worst fear was, Clint has been haunted by the same one.
He texts Laura and she calls him immediately.
"Clint?"
"You should be asleep." He says softly.
"It's 3:40a.m. So should you."
"Why are you up?"
"I've got clinicals tomorrow. I'm up cramming."
Clint nods, "you're such a beast."
She chuckles quietly, probably trying to not wake her roommate. And her voice is soft when she speaks, "everything okay?"
"No, but there's nothing I can do about it."
"That must be really frustrating." She says, "What do you need from me?"
He lays back down. "Just talk to me. Tell me about what you're studying. Read to me all your clinical stuff."
She laughs and agrees, "Okay, you asked for this." She starts reading to him from her text book and he listens as her quiet soft voice soothes him until he feels himself start to drift off to sleep.
—